


With all the silence of an internal scream

by serpentynka



Series: Sketchy [5]
Category: Sketchyverse
Genre: Bespoke object porn, Divergent while compliant, Established Relationship, First Person, M/M, Mycroft Holmes IS the British Government, Political Intrigue, retirement!lock in the background, tags are not the author's strong point, éminence grise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:08:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 26,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21631147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serpentynka/pseuds/serpentynka
Summary: As the éminence grise to the actual British Government, Alex is in the position to say...nothing.  (Everything.)
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Alexander Nussbaum, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Sketchy [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/122889
Comments: 144
Kudos: 33





	1. For a start

**Author's Note:**

> This is a continuation of Parts 1-4 in this 'verse' and follows existing characterisations and plot lines.

_November, generally. <-- fill in later_

I've kept away from using this book, hoping I'd fill it with more developed ideas and drawings. It feels like indulging the lazier self by giving in & using it for random scribbling. When the days are shorter it is harder to remember things without sketching them out or writing them down and looking at them, as many times as one may need. 

I am not in form: I can feel already that my fingers have got out of training, at least in this position, ha. You'll bear with me, book. The first parts may be messy, indeed. 

That said, I've found myself missing the process of writing out a record, of sorts, of health / head, and my marriage. Such a pleasure to write that, and know it is not fiction, or fictional, but integral to one's biography (even if that life borders on fantasy, and the main character is the most wonderful, though chronically overworked human being in England). 

I just read that over and noticed a certain semantic problem, though I cannot erase this, so lest anyone ever reach this and imagine I have just been referring to myself, let him know that I meant M! I am not chronically overworked, for one thing. I may look it. The rest: I don't think of myself as wonderful. Quite honestly, I struggle, a lot, and it is only love that keeps my head above the surface. 

Surface of what? Ech, so many layers one may emerge between, while looking for the sun. 

Where shall I start, now that I've started? The weather has been poor, and not even wet. Today, low-hanging clouds, the air smells mainly of car exhaust. Then again, there have been some lovely things: the jacket from M, now finished, and lots of kisses all over for my birthday, which I can still feel if I think long enough. M has just had his, too, but unlike me, seems to have stopped ageing. He is every bit as stunning as he was the last time I wrote about him, and it has been some time, has it not. 

How have I resisted writing about him? And why would one resist, what has kept me away from trying to write it down? I don't even know how to explain.

Then again, our feelings are so difficult to contain in words, not that anyone could 'ask the right questions'. I cannot do so, either. I have felt before that we should have some record, that I would want someone to know what he is like, gorgeous when naked in strong light, for one. Ha! Quite possibly I'm deluding myself, thinking my words could ever reach or move anyone. Or by imagining that I could best understand and convey his intellect, and what he does, advises, prevents, circumvents, commits. And so forth. 

This is how I know I should do some writing: I am not okay if thinking about such things hurts as much as it did, just now. Lately, I have been sleeping strangely and wake up stupidly tired, regardless of whose house I sleep at (as though there were dozens). I hope M forgives me for this even if I cannot forgive my straying attention. At least he doesn't get after me for it, like recently when I glanced through and then put away the very thing he'd just asked me to bring. His expression was the remotest thing from annoyance, while not showing anything in the place of annoyance, either. 

-

It's a bit later. Book, we must get used to one another, that is, you must learn to stay open on my table and I shall try to be more engaging. What I was trying to say above: I need you, because sometimes I believe what I have written down to be truer than what is happening, in process. By that, I mean I need a record. You may help me by letting me tell you what I believe I know better than you. I don't know where this will lead. (But have I ever known?) 

_18 Nov._

The confusion after the meeting today, re. tolerating dictatorship (the one in question today). Intervening not the 'preferred, long-term' course of action, as the majority (even by the admission of the opposition) support their leader, in elections arguably more 'democratic' than in a 'representative republic', the alternative being decades of instability (seen elsewhere: widespread poverty, very low salaries, currency crash, closing of cottage industries, instant opportunities for enormous corruption and theft of national properties, the spectre of war due to weakness and inability to push back over disputed territory). That being to create alliances that do little more than supply goods which ultimately put pressure on or eliminate large sectors of local production. What have we to offer? Not much, and yet the journalist on a hunger strike is about to be force-fed and filmed. And we can stop that, at least the filming, I said, yet no action taken. A deeply frustrating afternoon and too many tears. We are all to blame when someone suffers, silently starving in darkness, in order to be heard. We all push about in this world like the crowds I remember in Victoria, shuffling / funnelling shoulder to shoulder toward a pair of small doors, stairs downward. 

I mentioned that the jacket is finished. It is hanging on the chair, here, needing an occasion, such as leaving the flat. For now I've been asked to stay in (air quality) & wait for the car at 8 p.m. I am as tired of myself as you are, by now, book, and want him so much, it seems a waste of so much breath, not to share. His kisses. The last ones when my mouth hurt from smiling, sucking, having my mouth licked out. When he told me what else he'd wanted in Minsk. I would want to hear that scenario, again and again. His fingers. 

I will leave you, for now. 


	2. Men, in space

_19 Nov._

There are a few things you won't know, having fallen into my hands so unexpectedly, before being misplaced, last night. When I had a moment to write, I couldn't remember where I'd put my two pens and my newest journal. (Wrapped discreetly in my shirt, apparently so that I would be sure to find it while dressing to come back home, ech.) Re. coming back home: be warned that I might leave you behind a lot -- at one house, or the other, or through my oblique prose. Watch me.

This sort of mishap is made possible by the fact that as of late, M and I don't live together, anymore. (The only one surprised, because in the end only a few of his staff know how we live, at all, was J -- S laughed & said it was the only sign I'd given of independent thinking in recent memory.) We had planned to share his house and keep my flat for times we needed to be closer to his office, or Cardio, or have S and J stay over (they came by once). M insisted that having meals at his place was optimal, and indeed it is -- Gladys is brilliant, but in the end, I have to decide when I eat what. Also, each of us enjoys his privacy -- it has never become a habit of ours to share as much space as S & J do (all over each other in the bath, particularly, or). I suppose it has to do with pace, style, all the little things that make a man and his body slower, or faster. It took almost six months for (things) to go back to resembling (earlier things) when I was either finishing a long day with him by leaving work with him for dinner, or he came to my place, to see me. When it made sense to stay in Westminster, we did, or I did. We noticed that each of us feels best in his own space, and enjoys having the other (over, ha ha). As well, I don't love being in that house, and I have never felt entirely at ease, there, but more like a guest in a relation's second residence, where two men use three spaces with any regularity. The others seem purposeless, even when well-lit -- I tried to introduce some bright, warm bulbs. That seemed to expose the emptiness, at best. To make his house 'fuller', there would have to be children, their pets, the help, *and* regular visitors needing a large dining hall. He's made a number of changes to the furnishings and the garden is gorgeous, but there are areas he does not touch. 

Once, M called just after I'd arrived home and heard how I was reacting (crying like an idiot when I'd got home), and said, "I'll come by, tonight. I'll want a word from you, concerning the house". He came at nearly ten, ate a small supper and took tea in my living room -- quiet because the subject was in the air, speaking for us both. And finally, I told him that I didn't imagine living there in spite of it all (unless loss of mobility, &c though my place would still be better-suited in many ways -- the lift, &c). He watched that (the act of me saying those things) carefully, and answered, "I see." I asked about his feelings on that and he said 'nothing in particular', 'as yet', and that he'd say more once he'd observed effects on emotions / general health. End of subject. I asked if it would cause much trouble in terms of the car, or other matters -- and here, he showed his nerves. It probably has to do with the drones. He knows I'm afraid of them, or more accurately, seeing how they work. 

There are some drawbacks, as you will certainly see, as time goes on: he sleeps better when I am in the same house; he wants me close by. My flat is too compact, and over-furnished, in his estimation. It interferes with his focus and he does not work with his papers here, if he does not have to. So, there we are: two middle aged bachelors, who happen to be married. Of course I'm joking a bit, but that is the impression one might have, thus the warning that you might not keep up with me, here or there.... 

The split between M's heart and head -- as though he had to consult an external panel before reacting fully (where I am just 'slow on the uptake', as S has put it, ha ha) has an exception: his response to my love, which is very direct, thus fragile. He told me once, in anger, that trust 'is that process which survives no interruption'. I could not agree more, and this explains plenty about his heart.

So, dear volume, because you are already becoming dear to me, we have -- thankfully -- a very precious place which is ours, where that hesitation (wrong word -- reserve, inner delaying of the self, toward others) <-- this isn't making any sense.

I can't concentrate. Last night, when I got to his house, Gladys let me in. M was still at the dinner table, texting S on his phone. "Good evening, apologies for this," he said, and I tried to rub out a tense place where neck meets shoulder and kissed his head. The texts had gone on during most of M's supper -- S was in the mood for a fight -- & it went on until I called him! Once he'd set aside the phone, M stood up and put his arm around me, wincing a bit at the rotation. "Better, anyhow. Come," he said, "I have news." Did he. He put me in front of the fire and explained at some length that they'd managed to scramble the signal during the broadcast (the journalist's feeding, on YT) and while the man was fed, he was spared having his family and supporters watch how 'nutrient supplementation' is administered when one has a gag in his mouth, made of mesh in case he vomits! Mother, be close to him, we are useless. 

M does not see it that way. He said, "The role of the State, little one, is always the same: the State has a monopoly on violence. When individuals are given the means for violence, they will take it. Given the slightest pretext -- a sign of weakness or reluctance, some of the photographs you had the misfortune of seeing two days ago would come to life, instantly, here. We should have no delusions, &c." There is an interesting indicator, in Sweden of all places, but I would need to understand it better before writing it down. M asked how my day had gone and I told him I'd been writing and sketching. The reason for writing about the house (above): when I mentioned that "I was thinking of seeing you", he smiled thinly and looked away. He said, "If you'd been feeling better in the morning, I'd have enjoyed your company today." I asked, "What could I have done?" Another smile, this time, gentle. "What, darling, could I possibly have done when you were working?" He could not 'answer exhaustively' about the things I might choose to do. It was sweet. He was already sitting close; I could smell the glass of Porto he'd sipped after dinner while texting; patience was in short supply (that is, mine was). When his hand slid into the small of my back, it was warm enough to feel through my shirt, and when he seemed to change his mind and grazed up my spine instead, very lightly, it was maddening. A reminder of how nothing can fully replace another's touch, particularly when a man wants to take and think as little as possible. As I did. (I hope this is making sense, because I have my doubts.) His other hand was on his knee, to steady himself, and I imagined leaning down and kissing it for everything it was about to do to me. Beautiful volume, you haven't experienced anything pleasant from my hand, so this may not be entirely 'relatable'. I can't bear to remember the times I didn't know his touch, or the thoughtful man behind it. All of this chaos in my head, then and now. 

While on my way there, in the car with Rodney, I'd decided (M) would kiss me first. You shouldn't be surprised by this -- I wanted him very much, but when M starts, it means he already knows what he wants, such as taking great care in making me even less coherent, and messier, than usual. <--My ideal state, actually. When taking care, perhaps his most ideal state -- he is happy. The same energy he would give to, say a forty-page list of X for the summit in X. Yes, and yes! 

I leaned closer to him and he finally pressed his lips on my cheek, nearly a kiss, but more a sampling. I'd not shaved, partly because my hand was tired from working at my desk. He lingered there, and my heart would have picked up, were it allowed so much -- anyhow, I felt him in every vein already. The last bit most beautiful of all, as he dragged his lips over my face and covered my mouth, with his, completely. Hotness. The edges of his lips perfectly smooth, and slick, and warm, and his tongue just behind them. By then he was really only touching my mouth and the rest of me was burning for the same, so I took his cheek & made those kisses almost painfully deep for him. It was so good. He broke it first, to breathe alone, put his head against mine. "Little one," he said, "look how easily you remind me." I did look & saw a troubling day & a powerful but frustrated person with a far softer expression. There are few prettier things. "Of what?" I asked. He brushed my face with his fingers. "How poorly I manage time. Can you stand?" he asked. And he was already so turned on. We were each half-warm from the fireplace, and I rubbed a thigh between M's legs to be closer, and I told him, "I'd like to take you upstairs, to your bed, and watch your face while I. Mm? How would you finish that?" (Something like that.) By then everything was jealously waiting for his touch. We got upstairs, you and I book, because he had to manage me and all of my things. And finally, when we stood near the side of his bed, every kiss seemed more lingering than the last, or somehow deeper, making me ridiculously hard. Again, his hands on my back. "Please, if you would." I opened his trousers, pushed them down and grasped his arse before he could say much more; I wanted to take him in my mouth but he held me in place and asked me to lie facing him, despite the shoulder, and he stroked my head and kissed me with so much gentleness and tension, until I heard my name in a particularly breathless rasp, and I tried to unbutton myself but his hands were between my legs, and then got in my pants and stroked and teased me, finally pulling me out and rubbing me off rather fast, until I was gasping into his kisses, begging with my eyes falling shut. I came like mad on his shirttails -- then found myself clutching his hip so hard that he had to move my hand, on to better things. Soaked already ("bc / your arousal") and he felt so perfect, hot, wanting it. Even the clothes, and their friction. It was beautiful: hardness to hardness, palm to cock, lips to teeth, lips to the root of him. Love against death. The male body, a mess of threads that finally align, tense, clench, wring us out. 

The moment when I kissed his chest -- his breathing was still quite uneven -- and then leaned into the hand he was threading through my hair, because he was not trying to smooth it, but to ground himself. 

Every day is precious. We have nothing more. Beautiful volume, don't let anyone tell you things like, "Don't be silly, he's yours." 


	3. One's legibility

_20 Nov. _

Reading what I wrote yesterday and laughing at how compressed it is. He was taking his time with me -- it wasn't over that quickly! 

What anyone can see, on paper and in person, is how need is always so transparent on me. S has called me an open book; he says that when a chap is flayed to pieces and left around a room, there's no mystery. I'd been laughed at for being so 'legible', my whole life. Even C, because the months of our relationship -- despite how he left me/it, or how awfully he behaved more recently, were singular -- remarked that I couldn't hide anything (though I could) and that I am impatient in bed, unless (this is not what I set out to write about) I was topping him, then I would draw it out. Because who wouldn't. Why did I write that. Perhaps it needed to be said. Autumn smog in my synapses, never mind. And now another name comes into my head. Douglas. His name was Douglas. D.

\--

I used to meet David at Selfridges for their high tea (when he was speaking to me, if there was such a window of time, which would then slam shut again, rinse, repeat), & got to know one of their servers, Barry, who'd just got through a horrid divorce & was the first person I was out to, meaning in public discourse -- not sure anyone would care to remember those things, but I do. I'd been trying to order a coffee for my everlastingly enraged brother, this time (still) over my wedding. He'd refused to take the cream tea we were served -- anything could set off a tirade. Barry introduced me to D., through a mix-up over my brother's macchiato, made as complicated as possible to annoy Barry. David went back to work and D. asked if I'd fancy going back to his place & yes & finally a proper blowjob, though when I laughed at the end, he thought it was at the sight of him -- bad timing -- & was (not terribly keen, tried again some days later & he quickly moved on, that is, after a month or so, he moved on and did not mention it to me for some time). He wasn't the first man I'd kissed -- that went to a stranger. It was all random -- me, stupefied by the cut of his trousers at the British Library (he was standing at the end of a row but I could not stop staring, in time). And I'd seen him before, I'd just established. Ech. He said hello, because it was getting ridiculous. I said he-llo back, and I suppose I looked so lost that he touched my jacket sleeve, to stop me walking on. He asked if I was waiting for anyone. I didn't quite understand and made to explain, until we looked at each other, and then he stepped close and kissed me squarely on the mouth, then on part of my mouth, as I was turning my head away. I even apologised -- I fancied he was waiting for a particular person, who'd have been hurt by seeing us. I doubt he had any idea what I was about. It wasn't terribly stirring at the time; I was thinking about getting home to finish an illustration. By the next day, I was practically hitting my head on my desk over it, incapable of drawing & unable to determine if I'd missed the shag of my wildest dreams or simply avoided a lot of trouble. In hindsight, shall we say, it became a pleasant thing to daydream about. It was. So. Easy. Were it not for arrhythmia & depression taking turns for show or joining forces, I'd have indulged much more. I've met others at Cardio with similar feelings, re. wishing to indulge but sharing a certain fear of being caught breathless at the wrong time. 

So. I ought to have been more discerning but had little experience & looking for someone was exciting but not as self-evident a process as I'd hoped. Hoped? Others were better at this & made my acquaintance. And I was needy as fuck. I did not encounter a single man who 1) took me seriously and 2) could bear the sight of my sternum, 3) was fantastic in bed, and 4) was faithful. Aside from C. Add to this several more points: breeding -- I was warned to be selective and secretive (not my strong points -- lack of practise, again), never showing anyone, even C or S, to a point, what I had, which I cannot say I am entirely proud of, and I do not expect anyone to understand. M has mentioned before that I was 'fortunate' that I'd never been targeted. Gracious Mother. Abram is brilliant at managing things to where I don't even know X. When I realised something about my manners was not drawing in the right sort, well -- more anxiety, which has never shut off for long. 

Beautiful book, I wish I knew why we are constructed like a loose and precarious stack of objects, and need is filed in the very middle of them. 

OMG I just thought of something. Someone. Isn't it remarkable yes, very -- I will fill that in for you, book -- that my first meeting with M was nearly the opposite of that in the BL. Granted, again, we were in a library! Ha. And M was difficult to miss, dressed down, in the russet tweeds (he'd been near Cambridge, and stopped at the Glen Burns on his way to his club -- nearly impossible, in itself; I have to ask him to wear those again though they'd be very loose -- we've had a little shag in the stairwell but never in the library -- motion cameras, &c). Watch how easily I distract myself. He was seated in a gorgeous wooden armchair, next to their Sewell globe, with his wrist propped on his umbrella handle -- his great-uncle's, with the knife -- we've met. See, things could have gone very differently! While staring to draw my attention, it was not to demonstrate his approval, or any opinion, for that matter. He showed no real curiosity -- despite using the word "curious". He claims now that he was confronting his brother's behaviour toward me in public, with what he'd learnt from...his own rather complicated investigations, into my family and then first-hand inventories of my recovery, from my nurse, dear Sid. Whereas I had got attention I did not need before, see above, M's behaviour was polarising. Even so, it was a welcome change, believe me -- his manners elevated every encounter. There was no context for feeling apologetic or ashamed; in fact, I remember feeling the need to argue, which continued every time we met. I attributed that to pain, at first. But it was not pain reminding me I was alive. It took time to understand that. Your predecessors know more about what I was going through. 

S, whose moodiness is still the stuff of legend in NSY and MI5, is not so overpowering, which is not to say he isn't intimidating. He can be dreadful, and then minutes later he'll place his head in your hand. M will conclude even the most appalling business with zero compunction. And when he places his head in your hands, it is not in contrition but you could die of happiness. I don't know how to explain it better than this: I want his love like nothing else, as if I did not yet have it. I find I want love more than health. I suppose there's a reason M thinks I would drive any poet to despair. 

Perhaps I have just admitted one of my secrets. This makes me so anxious that my mouth is watering, and my hands are weak. A man can have many failings, while only wanting two small/enormous things: 1) the one he did not inherit accidentally, as he did nearly everything he has, and 2) the one he never knew how to begin asking for, even from God. 

"Mr. Nussbaum, they've done it. And to make a long story short, we're pleased to say you qualify!" Or:

"Alexander, we are waiting for a word from you, as to whether you accept the risk." "Do you, kitty?" "I accept it." And I would say, "Give me a pen, I'll sign it, in blood." "Out of the question." "Your blood, then!" "Ah." 

That is how it will go, exactly never.

(If any page should be torn out and burnt, then take this one, first.)

\--

21:02

I know what I will tell him if he asks me, "what are your thoughts, Alexander?". "Russet, manners, fuck me?" My main thoughts for the afternoon, in a nutshell. The others I should keep to myself. Forgive the burden I'm placing on you. It may get worse.

Re. tweed, I was rubbing the seams on this jacket, and I wish I could rip it apart to have a look at what Vince got up to -- M mentioned that V occasionally adds personal touches on pieces of the canvases while stitching them to the horsehair -- he'd seen one work in progress on a mannequin. (How can he torment me with details, like that? Shall I ask S to x-ray this?) V has a complicated emotional life with Carter (Sawyer) and from what I infer, they compete while sometimes working from one bed -- my theory. V 'falls into melancholy' -- episodes where he works very long hours, to avoid going home, alone (again, my theory). But the embroidery -- is one of the most gorgeous ideas ever, and I told my Frederick about it. He said he'd only seen a few initials or other signature lines of stitching (he leaves behind basted crimson threads), with little variation due to the need for consistent coverage, never a full dedication or work of art, but, why not. I asked him to embroider a large 'M' in my right trouser pocket lining, sometime, and he laughed! 

Anyhow, I wonder what is inside of this beautiful thing. I do know that the material they got is vintage, perhaps nearly my own age, and very soft -- S would go mad over the fibres but would probably want to test them with picks. There are shops full of this sort of wool, of course, but choosing the most stunning imaginable weave and convincing them to part with it might have been harder, though kitty managed -- a double-wide herringbone in every possible shade of dark moss green and heath brown, over-woven in a loose mustard and cornflower windowpane check, with flecks of dark violet, clear navy, muted orange -- I adore it. It is close-cut, with a longer 'skirt' than I usually wear, soft enough that it has no stiffness, and with a stocky lapel to even out the proportions -- artfully done, because the tweed is also matched up beautifully at every dart and seam. I want to visit that island!


	4. A rocky place

_21 Nov._

I've been reading about the crescent where the magic happens (The Outer Hebrides) & I need to see it. There was a fragment on 'wholly barren and rocky islets' which I would like to ask M about, and whether April is good, weather-wise. Lewis, and Harris. Pretty one, I will bring home wool, in mad, gorgeous weaves and upholster everything -- making it harder to find me in a room, not that anyone without unusual powers of discernment ever looks for me. Anyhow, the challenge lies in getting my husband to Scotland after whatever he must decide and organise beforehand in order to somewhat peacefully travel with me. So I have plans.

_23 Nov._

I've opened an old wound, and I am so sorry. M said, "in the first months after the markets collapsed, we visited some of the industries / textiles particularly vulnerable to dumping" &c. I asked him, "you didn't care for Harris, then?" "I did, I've kept a number of contacts. It required support, that is, the industry." Something was off, but I put my arms around him and gave him a kiss. "That winter," he said, suddenly. "You'll remember the so-called Big Freeze, and I was caught there. And we could not fly out for six days. The hosts were pleased to have us longer -- I've never indulged in that much herring and whiskey, since, and their hospitality was unforgettable. I received word from Rene. A day later, word -- to his last caller" (he motioned at himself rather resignedly) "-- that he'd fallen." Then he said, "Little one, 'the living wait, the dead do not', as you understand all too well. And my inability to leave", he seemed to be concluding, "tested that". 

He has a trait that I admit I would never be able to cultivate: he reduces things until they can't really be described or felt any more succinctly without losing their form. I don't know how else to describe it. When something hurts him, he gives it a very blunt, clear summary, sometimes in another language if it suits the situation better, and that is what he will say or write. Like an official version, trying to keep himself out of it. That is why he so succinctly described the relaying of facts by phone and how it became very chaotic, the snowstorm that swept away evidence, his concluding the worst, the police investigation which he described as clumsy while praising the rescue team. R is something of an enigma, a youngish analyst, from the heart of Luxembourg City, parents closely associated with the European Court of Auditors. Kitty used the word 'entrenchment' and believes R had been pressured/ordered to audit family involvement in shady art acquisitions for favourable currency rates benefiting several people responsible for enormous losses across the EU, particularly GB. Whether that happened remains unproven, at least to kitty's satisfaction, and the pressure on R may or may not have existed -- he was depressed but something took him to that place, an outcropping, where he removed his skis, set all his gear aside (even some of his outerwear), left his phone (switched on, which is how they knew where to look), turned to one side, and threw himself down. M was not in love, nor did R necessarily realise M had intentions though he probably did have, and the whole story is so upsetting that I cannot imagine how he coped. Moreover, that the lady minister in Lisbon met an even worse end. Dark times. 

Why have I written that? For myself? In fact, I do wish he'd fallen in love, because given his construction, that would mean he'd had a trusted colleague, first. I wish that R had never faced despair. 

That was a terrible winter. I will always be grateful to Our Holy Mother for bringing out the sun, that one day. I have got to go to church but I don't want those DC86s along.

Stop, Lexie, this evening is for someone else.

_25 Nov._

Beautiful book, keep this, so I can find it easily. (Do you see it???)

I must work on my temper, God help me. Sometimes I'm afraid I'm losing my mind. 

_[lightweight handwritten card, pasted in centre of page]_

_I cannot leave the following words unstated and I trust you will read them carefully. At the very_

_least, the subject of your health ends predictably: with your pretensions and resentment._

_Only a minor reference to your heartbeat from my side brought a disrespectful and_

_vehement denial from yours, one thoroughly disobliging while unstructured,_

_even defiant, on the matter of lifesaving devices. Should any part of_

_you go neglected it would pain me, lastingly. Wasteful handling_

_of facts does nothing to lessen their seriousness, though it_

_undermines our shared comfort and happiness._

_MH_

_26 Nov._

He brought flowers. He never does that. To balance things out, I was my usual, useless self. 

He set them on the sofa, still in dark blue paper because he was very upset and couldn't be bothered to unwrap them. Neither could I. He looked at me sharply and shook his head. He said, "Don't speak. Listen to me. Please. If you cannot accept it, a gesture will do." I started crying, terribly. "Alexander. We will not go to Harris or Lewis, anytime soon. The terrain you want to visit requires strenuous walking, unless you had in mind postcard-type views from the roads. [...] I accept responsibility for my part in your increasing reluctance to go out, move about in some semblance of a normal life. We had anticipated some difficulties, but now you must improve your condition to avoid other, more serious problems. You will have your series of annual tests in January, and at the same time, the doctors will, under close monitoring, shut off your pacemaker during part of those tests. No, don't speak." (I couldn't have, anyhow.) "No cardiologist would recommend a full stress test on a treadmill to a patient with a mechanical mitral valve, much less one with a pacing device, not so? There are very few of you and it is an area that glaringly lacks solid empirical data. Therefore only the simplest exercises with specialists on hand, should you experience any difficulties, whatsoever. And you will undertake cardio-rehab. You and I both stand to benefit. I do not question your dedication, and were you to treat your health seriously -- don't speak. Because you do not, presently, seem to take it nearly as seriously as I do, I would not hesitate to travel more, in fact, I have many ideas. For now, I am setting them aside." 

I know he is saying these things out of love but it was like a punch to the gut. He said that a gesture would do, and he saw a few. 


	5. Underlying reasons

_28 Nov._

I don't mind staring at a blank page. Worse: staring at something that is on a cline from 'unfinished' to 'unfinishable', awaiting my decision. Another possibility: they expect clear answers from me and when they don't get them, they decide on 'unfinishable', to punish me for having been unable to reach a verdict on my own. 

I can't think. I could blame my pills for all of this, but I know when I am outnumbered. 

Without them, even my disjointed thoughts would not exist. Nor would many pleasant ones. 

_29 Nov._

M and I are at the club today, reviewing papers. Right now he is wandering along the length of the office -- rather close to the furnishings (reading selected fragments aloud, going on the light from the frosted windows; the lamps are irritating him). He and S have had a series of arguments and from what I gather, S may have reminded him of my 'poor' condition to start with. He forwarded me two articles about problems with pacers like mine (some with weak batteries) and opinions he has gathered on the subject, lest anyone wish to keep me in the dark. I nearly wrote back that if M wants me in the dark I won't refuse. Tonight would do. 

(He just looked up at that -- I think my breathing gave me away, ha.)

\--

OMG

Book -- when one is silly, spoilt & forgetful (you don't have these failings) & another can forget nothing \-- ech!

Right after the above, when he paced just past my chair, to drop a full clipboard on his desk, I reached out for his sleeve, to stop him walking away again. He looked at my hand & this book, possibly because the page is rippled from glue in the middle, & said, as if caught mid-thought, & I suppose that is exactly what happened -- "Did you read it carefully, Alexander? The card." "Which card?" I asked completely unthinkingly -- there were at least five card-type documents within reach of my chair. He stepped back a bit. "My card." "Yes, I did, several times, thank you." "The underlying reason for its severity", he prompted, and then watched me carefully. "And I've thought about everything you've told me", I said to him. "And you have not answered", he replied. "What?" (<-- This is me.) "Kindly Explain, Wherefore. Compliance, or love?" Gracious Mother. "Both," I told him, "I cannot separate them so completely. Compliance, out of love." "That is the only way I would have it", he said, "from you. Come." I stood up from my chair -- then a text arrived, perhaps from S. I nodded that he should take it. He tapped in an answer, glared at the wall behind me, and sent it. I had another thought but took his (very stiffly set) face in my hand, instead, and kissed the raging pulse in his neck, up to his ear, and told him that I love him, that yes, I'd seen it -- and had I missed it I would still know perfectly well (I needed a word that was like the positive side of 'blatant' and couldn't get to that). He grasped me back and kissed me sweetly, and then much less sweetly. 

He explained (it was more eloquently put): "There are tendencies more easily noticed by my brother (...) and you know mercifully little about my father's approach, placing conditions on us at home" &c (something in the man that he does not want to repeat) but "having consistently erred seriously enough before" he had doubts about whether he'd "said a word too many when we were arguing". He may have but I was speaking in anger, too.

I will leave you for now, because he is at his desk again, making notes, and I am not finished with him. 

16:30

Dear Abram has suffered intracerebral haemorrhaging and is in critical condition. Last evening loss of speech coherence; shortly after could not stand up from his desk & was rushed to hospital. M has been in touch with Mina for a few hours & has just asked that I prepare for the worst. 

(No.) 

I asked if Carly knows; M said he cannot determine whether Mina has attempted to call C. May the excellent care Abram has found himself under minimise discomfort and stop short any more events. This is truly terrible, for all of those who have been fortunate enough to find themselves under *his* care.

\--

A few notes. Abram told me after my Auntie passed away that he was the only member of his family who survived WW2 -- the other five died in Stutthof (execution, illness) or in transport between smaller camps, most likely from typhus. He'd slipped out to a neighbour's to play & upon hearing shouting outside, he hid under a stack of blankets & pillows, at first in fun. Nobody came for him & he fell asleep in the blankets. When he tried to go back home, he was stopped by his little friend's mother, who looked shocked to see him. There was a sharp exchange of whispers among several adults, and soon he was taken to another flat. Some days later, he found himself in a strange new country, called London (using a recently-deceased child's passport). He grew up under the care of a professor of law (a man who had just lost his little son and took in Abram without demur). He has never gone back to visit his former neighbourhood -- now a row of upscale office buildings, swank restaurants, and banks, built on layers of rubble, the existence of which is mentioned here and there on memorial plaques, says kitty. 

The important thing about writing things down this way is to have proof to show oneself that days one imagined could not be endured, were endured. That others have endured.

My fingers were as stubborn and cramped as today, and yet I wrote. I could not always see what I was writing, like now, and yet the tears did stop for longer and longer. They do stop, remember that.

\--

I had heard Abram's name many times -- my aunts were very fond of him -- but it was only after Mum died that I met him. David wouldn't talk to him after hearing we'd not be discussing prosecution of Mum's surgeons so I sat between my Auntie & Uncle, with my hands folded politely on my lap, and pretended to understand my 'status' (as I still pretend to!) and he helped me feel less like everyone's newest and homeliest problem. 

I cannot imagine having anyone else manage my papers, though temporarily that will likely be necessary.

\--

I found it -- slightly different than I remembered it (from Hesse), for kitty when he gets home: "We fear death, we shudder at life's instability, we grieve to see the flowers wilt again and again, and the leaves fall, and in our hearts we know that we too are transitory and will soon disappear. When artists create pictures and thinkers search for laws and formulate thoughts, it is in order to salvage something from the great dance of death, to make something that lasts longer than we do."

\--

An artist made love to a thinker....


	6. Held

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unused illustration originally made for ABiHL / In Keeping.

_30 Nov._

We've lost Abram. Am I the only one who remembers Mum's voice? Must remember to look for video recordings. There has to be something left, in someone's hands.

\--

I am frightened of throwing in soil at the cemetery -- his memorial will be in January, date to be determined, and this is the sort of rubbish I think of.

I remember deciding that I would only do that for one more person.

Yes, I did tell him. He said, "That will be fully managed by others (...) files with my solicitors and the secretaries in Whitehall Gardens (...) no tears." I apologised for being morbid over brunch (yes) and he said, "Naturally it is closer to the surface." "It's not easy to shut it off." "No, it isn't." "I can't."

_1 Dec._

Advent!! Wonderful.

_3 Dec._

  
M asked what I was planning for the holidays, as if his & my holidays were separate occasions, ha. I asked if he'd indulge me in one thing, which could prove time consuming, and he said he would make every effort. In more common terms, I told him: a closely-trimmed beard, with a good cypress oil rubbed into it, which he should then rub into my thighs. He answered that there were events (upcoming) he'd rather not attend unshaven. And if I'd rather he'd attend to me unshaven? I asked. We'll come back to this. I also asked if he had any hopes and dreams, for the new year. He said they are unchanged: "averting catastrophe".

Seeing his brother happy is among those, as is 'a bundle of as-yet-imprecise ideas' he does not want to tell me about. By this evening he was still staring at me, possibly over the beard remarks. Well, I did try to discover at least one precise idea, and don't tell me you can't imagine which sort, as we were settling in on the sofa, downstairs.

  
I reached out to touch his face, starting from the finest lines he has at the corners of his eyes. Where his irises are almost opaquely steel grey, his brows are dark copper, far richer than the flecks he dislikes so much on his cheekbones and forehead; when I have measured him out with a pencil -- which embarrasses him as he does not care much for sketches of himself -- they are asymmetrical, by perhaps three millimetres. But his face, book, is every bit as classic as our best in the Portrait Gallery (which he refuses to hear), the same features he grew up believing were entirely out of proportion. One of his few distorted perceptions of anything, and it concerns himself. "It's enough that you believe you see it, I needn't look for it", he says. "Outsourcing?" When I finally smiled at him and kissed his forehead, he seemed to disagree with my thoughts yet again -- a blink of denial to words I didn't even say aloud -- but he did not stop me.

I will never tire of looking at these little and not so little things. The arch from cheekbone to jaw is much more pronounced than mine and catches shadow in a far sharper line than it did when we first spent evenings there, in that same light. Even he had to admit lately that he has never been fitter in his life. He has his clothes brought in more closely at the waist and thigh by inches and with a slightly higher break than he would have gone in for, two or three years ago; loose + braces was never his best look, regardless of how lovely the materials may have been / are. Not that it would be easy to overlook him -- his expressions and manner have not softened, in the least. To the chagrin of some, he refuses more often. Because he refuses me, less.

That looks terrible on a page but summarises the sort of blockades a man may throw in front of himself, like disbelief, melancholy or cynicism, which like other terrible habits still pull at him. And me, too. He still works far too much but is better at leaving more people to act on their own, without intervening as frequently, &c. Unfortunately, the international community can see the difference, without knowing what has caused it!

Last night, as I meant to write, was beautiful. I love remembering those moments. This may get rather long, and may end abruptly, ha ha. I wanted to calm him down a bit, and that does take time. (There was an exchange of prisoners of war that had been negotiated, delayed, corrupted, leveraged -- he was deeply concerned about the condition of one, who has a severely infected foot wound & might be unable to walk the half mile, and a threat he'd got wind of, to break the ceasefire in the region, provoking return fire along the route being walked by the prisoners. The first walked without incident. Others will walk tomorrow.) His lips hardly parted at first when I traced over them but he'd shut his eyes, and when I went to ask him something I realised I shouldn't, that he was trying to tune out a lot of worry and noise, and I should keep going, and so I got closer and put my lips near his mouth and brushed his skin as lightly as I thought he could stand.

I got on his lap and while it is difficult to put into words, that is, the decision or at least deliberate (act?) when I was about to kiss him (this is awful & I should really start over), I realised how little I had really looked at him or touched him much, since all that arguing, & it started slower & deeper. He reached up to hold my head, threading fingers through my hair and tugging it, which I love, though it was not to pull me in closer but more to stop me moving away again.

Dazed is not always a good thing, more a sign of struggle, but his eyes had got dark, sharper, and when I pulled open my pants (Frederick, genius), part way, and let him do the rest, he told me he wanted me, the first thing he'd said, and the second came moments later, when I had my hands on his shoulders & he had his hand on me, teasing me, & he'd started mapping a place over my throat & chin with kisses.

_4 Dec._

  
"Do we have anywhere to be? Where we absolutely have to be, at a particular hour?" I asked him at breakfast. "The ministry, a quarter past eleven." "The rest is table setting?" "Yes." "Do you...?" "Alexander." "True, I'll be a mess." "Go, I'll join you shortly." "Should I get dressed?" I asked. He didn't answer, but he did join me. He found me looking out his bedroom window; it had started sleeting & I thought I'd change into my clothes but found I couldn't be bothered, yet. So he found me, still in a t-shirt and pyjama, lovely as ever. "Sorry. I'm afraid the roads will be murder," I said & he agreed & put his arm around me from behind & covered my heart with his hand. I went to touch his hand & he told me in my left ear, "Don't move, don't talk." "Kitty." "Hush."

The rest. Beautiful volume. He'd already dressed, that is, I'd got him dressed & he held me in place & made me listen. To all the smallest sounds, first of the tie, a dry silk that hissed as he re-loosened it, pulled it apart & dropped it. Buttons brushing very good wool, six of them, popping open against his fingers -- then those bumping very close to my spine, then his letting go of me, long enough to shrug off the jacket & then that waistcoat -- onto the floor (yes), his breathing broken up by a small huff, a laugh perhaps in frustration at one of the hooks at his waist, from what I could feel, OMG, & I wanted to turn around so badly. He pulled open his shirt & unbuttoned his trousers & dropped those as well & stopped for a moment. I had a wild, indefinite need to tell him I had to look but he just moved his hand to my stomach & held me tighter, rubbed his prick on my arse -- closer to the hip, then, between my arse cheeks -- he didn't want to take off that blasted pyjama for me -- dear God, the small sounds of it were absolutely maddening, somehow still less maddening than hearing his breath, deepening, more and more, then picking up, dear book, it was so hard not to say anything, when he started kissing over my nape and the side of my neck, I was getting so horny & about then I realised how soaked he'd got in his pants -- I couldn't help him, or myself & he took himself in hand & being unable to lick all that away & kiss it was the best of nightmares. When I started to move without thinking because who wouldn't by then, I was losing it, he shook his head & held me even more tightly, his fingertips warm through my shirt, then poking a hand underneath it, reaching just under my arm so --yes, exactly how I was weathering that, in a cold sweat & I thought he might pull down my trouser bottoms finally but he did not & stroked himself like that, rather fast & sighed very hard against my ear & came on my arse. I made a rather embarrassing noise, though calling it a protest would be inaccurate. He kissed my neck and cheek, and once he'd caught his breath, he said, "So pretty." "Yes, it was," I said, "why are you trying to kill me, I love you, darling." I heard a smile in this: "Take off those trousers and turn around, slowly. You wouldn't want to be found that way." (Wouldn't I?)

Later, because he was just as laconic after giving me the best hand-job ever, at least at that window. Me: "What's the agenda, though?" M, glancing away and nodding vaguely: "Revised resource management practises."

I cannot believe how hot that was. I may have brought myself off on him in various scenarios -- but I would do it much more.

It's open season, as far as I am concerned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year!


	7. Under advisement

_5 Dec._

Drawing. Finally able to function without shutting my eyes and remembering what M sounded like behind my back. That is, I manage five minutes or so at a time, of functioning. Then I drift, again. OMG. Even so, progress.

How did that even happen. Meeting him, for instance. 

_6 Dec._

Will have to work with someone new, sooner than I'd like (new solicitor at Mahlersohn & Benson) as they have called re. the end of the year & to share the unfortunate news. I was one of only six clients A still served. They called me a "heritage client" -- I'd just call myself a throwback. 

I've decisions to make, anyhow. M makes a point of stepping away from certain legal matters (though he has superb knowledge in international, criminal, constitutional, administrative, EU, equity, human rights law & even created some of it, interprets, edits others', have mercy), given 'errors of purpose', as he has called his 'centralised' decision-making. Add to this my insistence, until now, that we keep separate solicitors, because I couldn't imagine telling Abram that I would work with someone else, just as he couldn't bear to retire. Dear man.

I will tell you, pretty book, in a word, why I despise discussing these things, aside from the fact I know next to nothing about managing my (life, basically). 

\--> Note to self: you spend too bloody much on clothes.

After Eugene lost so much property/debts etcetera in the late 70s, some of the Villiers (that is Henry's, until the mid-90s) quietly bought shares and stones from Sierra Leone, most recently during the worst moments in the early 90s, and traded that for gold, which they brought to London when flying back and forth on business. David's blind spot in this regard never made sense. I've only seen a handful of those stones in my life & I thought it was a joke -- quite ugly to a child's eye & only as a teenager did I understand: men who are capable of hacking women & children to pieces, or hacking them up enough that they may survive it & serve as warnings, finance their wars with the help of people like...those I don't want anything to do with. Thus zero contact, the choice to keep my father's name even if he didn't to wait to see my first 'repair'. Henry did ask once, if I wanted to change it. M finds that particular fact very interesting. I can't say I agree. 

\-- 

Shall I start over by saying I am sorry to have started this (bows politely and leaves). 

Terrible mood. I need to rest but my back is hurting, nerve pain, shoulder blades. 

Am I worse? Why am I having these attacks? Again, the feeling of boiling over. I almost threw a plate down, today. More accurately, I dropped one & it shattered & I nearly threw another out of frustration. I don't recognise myself in those moments. No, that was a lie. I do.

\--

M called to ask how I am feeling & I asked him to send Rodney. "He's outside of the building, with me. Come as you are now. Lock up." Rodney opened the door for me, thankfully, I wanted to fuse through the glass and get into M's arms as fast as possible. I didn't even lace up my shoes, as I found out later on. I am stupid, weak and childish, so much so that I didn't even thank him for his thoughtfulness. He's left me alone ("will you collect your thoughts first") in the blue room. I love him so much & I need to go tell him that, because if any thoughts of mine should be collected, that is the most important conclusion. Goodnight.

\--

Not quite yet. I interrupted him on the phone with Andrea. "Worrying indeed, to the extent there are (changes), though it also gives one the impression that certain fractions, who don't willingly speak with one clear voice cannot be united, so that one might be tempted to give up altogether...that would be a mistake, exactly what they would like to see us do in relation to Paris, and I've no doubt that unity will be tested in the coming days." 

(So, I learned that tomorrow he will hear if he has to be in Paris next week -- he says he will. And that A will accompany him.) 

It was a very good time to kiss him goodnight and tell him I loved him. And how hot he is, both to the touch, as he was very warm from the fire, and in my memory, because I cannot stop thinking of him holding me and coming all over me. He smiled, took a deep breath, and removed A from hold. 

Goodnight.

_7 Dec._

He will go.

M and I share an admiration of FK's works and particularly in the original German; his style of merely declaring the existence of the most bizarre states has always hit me between the eyes, like they were written while watching someone like me. Perhaps many have felt the same, over the last century? Ha ha. I was trying to remember FK's allusion to nodding, written just after the outbreak of WW1 & M knew it perfectly -- "You find yourself painfully pushed against the wall, apprehensively lower your eyes to see whose hand it is that pushes you, and with a new pain in which the old is forgotten, recognise your own contorted hand holding you with a strength it never had for good work." This, and the fragment on raising / lowering the head "without pause." I asked M if he thought it was about nodding assent to both types of pain and he said that any assent would exist separate of the gesture, and not to focus on that. I have to think that through.

_8 Dec._

I've noticed I overuse colons: so what. S rang, just now. "Hypnosis -- can it wear off? Why, yes!" This, because I mentioned I have had nightmares several nights in a row. (The C-PAP has brought very good, deep sleep into my life, I admit. Nightmares are less frequent, so this has been rather disturbing.) I have a "quick preliminary" appointment tomorrow at Mahlersohn & Benson and so I am at my place, tonight. 

_9 Dec._

I took a lot of notes but they make little sense. To quote J, because I adore his expressions, "Just a lot of nope". I'm ashamed of my own ignorance, or what it is comprised of: my sloth, vanity, and fear. 

Reconstructed using lists I made: 

"Hi there, my name is Simone, and I've been looking at your portfolio. I'll have some questions first, and then some suggestions on solutions appropriate to the current stages of your work and family life. Shall we start with a few questions that will help me choose an adviser for your needs?" "A pleasure. Alex," I said, because apparently I'd just remembered my own name. "Alex, we aim to help our clients make the most of their allowances, have you considered changing the conditions on yours?" "No, quite honestly, I have not." "You haven't changed it in eight years, when I see you reduced it? Okay? Assets as gifts? Good. Your involvement in the charitable trusts needs review in the coming year and we need to accommodate new intellectual property laws, to protect your own works and others' you currently own rights to." (??) "Would you like an appointment with an expert in succession management for custom management of your wealth and legacy, to your successors?" "Legacy?" "Perhaps a long-term trust? We can advise how best to distribute your estate after you die, and ensure your executor and beneficiaries follow your wishes?" Gracious Peter and Paul. "Would you care to receive more information on pre-retirement planning? It's a good moment to review your retirement goals in relation to your current investment returns. Would you be interested in having more of that portfolio in pounds sterling? Creating a revised estate plan according to the current values of the properties you hold? And review long term care plans in the event of accidents or loss of decision making capacity?" (As if I make proper decisions, now? Honestly, Simone.) "Would you like to be put in touch with Gary, our new in-house will and probates expert? Your will may be out of date. In the light of Dr. Mahlersohn's passing away, yes, yes, he'll be missed." (His competence and comprehensive view! Simone had already suggested four people's advice. Why should one Abram have to be replaced by so many, each with a narrow 'function'? I asked S and he said, "Fees! Go somewhere else.") "May we suggest the appointment of a new executor, too." That would be person number five. 

Ech. Then, "There is a note that means we should discuss your D-N-A-C-P-R decision, and the appropriate timing of deactivating your 'LCP'? This may include the eventuality of intentional or unintentional LCP deactivation, which could automatically warrant a standing D-N-A-C-P-R decision. And a decision as to whether its wearer -- you, and also the legal owner of the device -- also you?" "I don't know." "No? Oh? So it belongs to your husband's estate?" "Shall I call him and ask?" "Right, no, perhaps by next time? Our specialists in patients' rights should review that with you. And I need to be clear on whether one of you, or both of you, will surrender ownership of that device in the event of its removal for clinical reasons, or if you've determined whose estate takes ownership of the device if removal takes place following your death and preceding burial or cremation? There should be explicit instructions. Some hard questions, eh? Sorry. Oh, and I ask everyone this, but, since we're on the subject (???) of the two estates..." (Were we?) "...would you like to create a new plan for managing financial consequences to your estate in case of separation or divorce?" (No!?) "Better safe than sorry." (I'll take sorry, thank you, dear.) 

Me, after an hour like that, trying to hide that my mouth is full of saliva and I can't seem to swallow it, "Thank you, I'll call on you again once I have actual answers for you, Simone." "We're always here to help!"


	8. Blast

_11 Dec._

"I don't know where to start", I told M, "these are areas Abram had flagged, that we would have covered in January". I handed over the list / notes I made with Simone & he skimmed it all without comment. Most of it is settled & clear but there are crucial things which are not, among my papers & between us, an example of this when he reached the end and raised a brow at it before setting it aside with too much care, as if it were a delicate, old manuscript. "I think the most important thing is eliminating contradictory orders, anywhere we find them", I said. And he gave me one of his long, blanked out looks. Those are better left unanswered. 

\--

I should be shot. I've just realised my notes say, at the end: 

sep./divorce plan -- fin. conseq/s. re. 2 est/s, prop/s, X/†, LCP/†/M†, &c

How would you interpret that? If he handed me notes like that, I wouldn't stand it.

There is more to it. He is afraid I will lash out and hurt myself. Or give up and stop helping myself. I wouldn't have realised these things if he'd not said as much. It was at least a year ago; he'd had a lot to drink & didn't pre-edit his words ("whether I have merited this", "were you to reach a point"). I was across the table from him so I said, "I didn't hear that, sorry, what?" And he did not repeat it. (What should I have said!) Beautiful one, I regret to write that he has not got over my leaving him (lies & closeting he constructed). It was a terrible decision to make but the result of literal months of humiliation & confusion. I'd not have gone on that way much longer. He still leverages a lot, granted, though he never asks me to be anyone else. Even in Belarus and Russia, though in those places one minds himself, anyhow. The atmosphere. 

I've forgiven the 'closet'. I struggle with the falsified marriage as well as the awareness that he still hides difficult subjects from me (not unlike my Mum & aunts -- "Don't upset Lexie!") For instance, something happened to Roman Wilk but he won't talk about it. I miss Roman. He has a wonderfully dark sense of humour and drives like a beast in traffic -- shall we say, he does not acknowledge the existence of traffic, as such, and gets through it, somehow! I know from sporadic journal entries I made that I fell out with Carly, but I can't recall how that ended, either, nor where he went off to. I assume he isn't in London -- perhaps he is? Does C have any idea his biological father has passed away, I wonder! For the record, I don't want our paths to cross. 

Kitty flies to Paris first thing tomorrow morning.

_13 Dec._

Missing him so much. He should be home, this afternoon.

\--

I got this, in fives = a long story. "Alexander. Online footage unsettling but genuine. Use the N2 line only."

When he picked up, I heard him exhale quietly & I could hear he was smiling. I love that sound! "I can't talk now, little one. Thank you." OMG

\--

Texting with S.

Watched the films, chaotic and incomplete. How the buggering fuck could a 'civilian' fire a military-grade shell from an office window!! At a building guarded by soldiers? With protesters a block away! That nobody was killed is beyond me but Heaven be thanked. It is also beyond my understanding that my kitty -- my ginger kitty! was hit by shattering glass (S informed me), though as S explained, kitty was in a different building, well away from the actual shelling. And I am not there! I ought to have been at his side, should be there now, and here I am, in bed, scribbling rubbish on my cold, nasty knees. The rioting -- unthinkable.

Could he have anticipated that randomness? Or was the violence of that demonstration -- also demonstration? (Orchestrated?) Madness. Worse, kitty often refers to these things as highly likely 'events' here, too. That it is well organised enough, to go in that direction, by now. What I'm writing hardly holds together but this is a lot to swallow.

_14 Dec._

M has nicks & cuts on his left hand & wrist & one near his ear, & he remarked, "yes, glass, never mind that". Gracious Mother. He came to my place straight from the airport last night & when I saw them I wanted to kiss them but he wouldn't let me & went to scrub his hands & face. "I'd planned something for you but you'll understand I haven't brought anything this time", he told me. "How can you stand in front of me and say you haven't brought me exactly what I want most in the whole world?" I asked, and he tried to smile. "Lockdowns were uneven -- granted, not everywhere I'd have gone [...] I was offered a flight much sooner than expected. Moreover, the rain was miserable &c". Emotions were high. One of Andrea's acquaintances and his wife were visiting Paris for the first time (they're from Taipei, touring capitals) and had chartered a flight (?? -- through embassy) and invited A & M on a moment's notice. M said, "You rang while the President was preparing his address / longer discussion with my counterparts, &c. Come here, please. I didn't want to alarm you. Ironically the first thought I had was, 'Blast them, Alexander'. It is a privilege to be able to turn my thoughts to you, that I was able to think of it as little more than a setback, and an annoying one. Of course, after a few minutes one has other thoughts. At the time it was reassuring". I was so touched by that, it was beautiful. Adrenaline, sparking in his eyes. He hugged me very hard in the middle of the room. 

Something he'd had was not agreeing with him & he didn't want anything other than black tea. We didn't have that until much later.

A bruise on my chest from a button. A perfect waxing crescent. The world has been starving its brightest of kisses. He sat down on my sofa & pulled me on top of him, and held me, petted my head for a long time. It was intensely intimate.


	9. Authenticity

_16 Dec._

missing mass

ingratitude

blasphemous invocations

spiteful disobedience toward M

fantasies/masturbation to pornography (headphones)

desire for revenge

vanity

laziness

materialism

adulterous thoughts

suicidal thoughts

jealousy

despair & lack of faith

lying (re. pain)

lying (health)

\--

I had to stop earlier. I cannot begin to explain how much I love my husband. I admit I have been carrying around a lot of anger, abstract feelings of injustice. It is the season of penance, reflection, and anticipation -- the self, the ego interrupts. I don't know what keeps me from going to confession more. 

Yes, I do know. 

\--

Daydreaming. A scene at Lake Baikal after we'd taken a tour by car with a retired consular employee from Ekaterinburg (?) who'd settled near there -- and when we were looking out at a man and woman who were walking on what M assured me were about four feet of solid ice, laughing & taking selfies. No surprise, the scene was so gorgeous. Not entirely quiet, which irritated M, but it was still very, very pretty. Anyhow, the man was staying perhaps a yard ahead of the woman as they walked: "Tourists [...] There are other parts where it is a mile to the bottom. It captivates the imagination. That is to say, it has occasionally captivated mine." He smiled in the direction of the pair, who were disappearing in the distance & I asked him, "Do you want to go out there for a walk?" "I would if it didn't mean leaving you behind." "Exactly, kitty, if the ice broke I'd never forgive myself." "I meant leaving you to wait at a cafe, with a sketchbook." "Oh.... Well, we could just go together?" "And I'm saying I'd rather we didn't." There was a silence, and then he checked me, "Would you let go of my arm?" "Never. I don't know what you're thinking." "That, Alexander, is why we are walking on this path, along the shore." "But you want to go out there. I daresay that is why you brought me here." "Yes, in fact I did want to, particularly in the early 90s, though this scenario was the last thing I might have imagined, having little interest in constructing fantasies." "Darling. This is quite real," I said, only then noticing how shaken up he looked. He had several moments like that on our trip -- to where I thought he was ill or in pain, so that he was close to tears, but he assured me it was frayed nerves, headache. That alone was hard for him to admit to, particularly since it seemed to get worse the further East we went. (Another story. There are so many!)

But. As we stood at the lakeside, he narrowed his eyes at that landscape again, as if to try to keep it in focus. And I remember how he suddenly huffed to himself, not to lighten things, no. "What are you thinking about?" I asked. He grimaced, "Love and grief share a feature." "At least one", I agreed. "Yes. In distorting my sense of time, Alexander. Falling in love with you reignited grief. Or at the very least, gave it names. Some wholly unexpected, others I'd not thought of in years." "That's very understandable. A new constant takes getting used to, but look what a beautiful one it is." He shook his head, always the sceptic. "Those griefs, in fact, led me to treat you instrumentally. A hateful thing, yet it came all too naturally to me. Were an ill conceived love to drive you from me, it would return things to -- " He gestured outward at the ice, and looked so raw, actually, that I blanked out -- and for the first time, I had no idea what to say. He glanced over at my reaction and to break the silence, I said, "We'll go for that walk, if you want to, I'm not afraid to go out there". He shook his head again. "No. I'd rather take you to dinner. Come, it will be dark in an hour, and we've half frozen you." "Good that it's only my top half, though." He paused, then quipped, in his way, "We'll need more than that, tonight." So I said, in my way, "I think I'm going to have to be warmed up from inside. Any idea how we might try, ginger kitty?"

That was the only time he dared to kiss me outdoors on that entire trip but it was very good, hard & a lot of tongue, and he did recover his composure, and my heart was going pleasantly mad, even if my nose hurt afterward. (I think my nose was bleeding almost every day, mercy.) 

\--

Reminder: describe the stage-like fireplace-turned-window, in Minsk. 

_17 Dec._

This morning's homily by Father T (the college teacher), who prefers to speak without any microphone and needs no notes; I regret there were so few people listening. He spoke about the life of St. John the Baptist, namely what could be taken as his perplexity or even disappointment toward the Messiah -- the same one he'd 'discovered' & whose style of peaceful ministry had little to do with the wrathful avenger from the prophesies (Nah., Is.). And he questioned Jesus -- are You really the One, or should we go back to waiting? What moved me was T's conclusion: in crisis, our expectations are most selfish: thus very human doubts about a Messiah who doesn't respond in kind to oppression and violence, despite his own extensive powers to strike down his opponents. I approached T in the sacristy and asked if he would confess me before leaving but he said I'd have to wait and for some reason I laughed. I don't know what got into me. He said, "No, you're right, Alex. Come in, I'll be back in five, I have to answer these texts from the school, &c." It was more than five minutes. I never feel at ease there; I won't explain why, book, because I wanted to write about something else, today. When he did come back I must have looked, well, not-myself, because his face fell a bit & he apologised & said he would not keep me from a sacrament of healing when so few days are left before Christmas for penance. True enough, I should do little else. He shut the door and locked it from the garden side. As is his usual preference, we sat across from each other at the long table that cuts the room more or less in half. I do trust him & I should mention that in the absence of other explanations; one of the reasons I ask for him in particular is that I appreciate his counsel & active listening. It is a dialogue and he doesn't leave one alone with his lists, shall we say. We had a very long chat. I rarely speak to anyone aside from M, for so long. (Do any of us, now? From what I see, we go without much dialogue for days, preferring to read them. While being so visual I also have a need for sound that I cannot always satisfy with people. I don't know how to explain this further.) Anyhow. I hadn't realised how much anger, filth & sadness I'd been holding on to. We talked about doubts in the face of death & mourning. I haven't been able to open my heart enough to mourn again -- I told him I'm afraid to start but he pointed out it was not a decision any more than other emotions we have & I had to laugh. True. But I am deeply upset at the loss & that I will not have another person who cares quite that way, with that depth of understanding. Then anger & jealousy in relation to one's spouse (he mentioned he was married at 19 but lost his wife after a few months though that was nearly 30 years ago, abroad). I suppose we talked more than an hour and a half. I walked back to my flat, changed my clothes & called Rodney to take me to the club. I'd planned to make a stop in Jermyn Street but was not in the mood for speaking to anyone else before seeing M.

M was standing over his desk, reading a sheaf of papers and giving instructions on the land line when I was shown in. He must have been at that for some time, because he had taken off his jacket & had a glass of something near his hand. He approached & helped me out of my coat: "The waxy, dusty myrrh-like odour you'd have got at church, sitting close to the altar. The back of your coat doesn't smell like the wood soap so you were on a backless bench, the better to hear the speaker. And having spent twice as long as usual, and experiencing some discomfort, you've changed your shirt." "Right you are. My turn." "Go on." "You skipped breakfast because I wasn't there & you'd no one to be an example for. You're probably hungry yet drinking a watered-down something, in shirtsleeves, because your blood is boiling and you won't eat with any enjoyment until you're calmer. So the budget you were working on has been sent back yet again & they expect you to recommend another area or two for reductions that the public can still tolerate? Instead of doing it themselves?" "Three areas, little dove. What led to you that?" "You mentioned the number 14 dash 75 on the phone. Can I help you with anything?" "Yes. Simply tell me what is on your mind. Ah. Confession with the Jesuit." "Yes," I told him. "My resentment has destructive effects on us, you're right, I'm so sorry." "Alexander, we've spoken about that already...." "I have been almost habitually angry but your willingness to make the most difficult decisions is why I am able to call myself yours, in fact." He watched my face as I said all of that. "Alexander...enough." "It's the reason I can stand here." (He really wanted to stop me.) "Mycroft. It is a cornerstone of who you are. I love you for it. You are the one who takes the hardest decisions of all, and once I understood that I could hardly hold off. Remember what I told you, after their wedding." Here, he nodded. "And how you once compared some of my roles to the taikomochi, do you remember?" "Naturally." "That was one of the best characterisations I've ever heard, of the person I want to be." He picked up that glass of his and drained it, then told me, "If this indirectly concerns Paris, Andrea's training was required for that particular meeting." He doesn't usually get things that wrong, beautiful book. So I was a bit taken aback. "No, it's not about Paris, in particular. No. It's about wanting to be useful." "You have suffered a loss, and it necessitates a series of changes. You're anxious and you needn't explain yourself to me." "Too many. And I'm thinking a lot about --" "Pathophysiology." "Yes!" "We will wait for the tests." "I don't want to know." "That is one of my greatest conundrums, little dove, how to convince you to take it more seriously." 

Anyhow, he was not reaching out for me. 

I'm finally getting to my point, I promise. OMG.

I offered to sort out the papers while he read them and we carried on like that for perhaps another hour. He got a text, took up his phone & read it, shook his head. He went around to his desk chair, sat down. "What's happened, kitty?" He exhaled & held out the phone to me. "It appears authentic." "What?" "Read it for yourself." "Is it about Afghanistan?" "Not directly."

Ha! I took the phone and read something like, "Would like to have you both down for Christmas this year. Let me know. - JW" 

Oh, lovely volume, I burst out laughing at him. "Why wouldn't it be authentic, darling!" M still sounded as if he were making concluding remarks: "It...includes...me". I think I said, "Aaaahhhhh! I can't wait! Lovely! Here, write back to him!" "I cannot see going there." "'Good afternoon, John. Yes yes and yes, thank you, MH'. Write it!" "Given the newest weather reports. No." "Temperate maritime never disappoints if one has zero expectations," I said, "who cares, you got them a very good roof as I recall." He fumed and set his phone aside. "But aren't you going to answer, kitty?" "Of course not." "Now I'm trying to decide how to word a refusal from us both, that John would be in a position to accept. Please, let's go!" "Alexander!"

Later still, he came back to it, in the same near-morose tone. It was more or less when we were leaving the club and getting into the car. M not-so-randomly sighed and rubbed his temple at what must have become circular thoughts: "My brother cannot possibly be aware -- there is no 'we'. 'Let me know' is dangerously dissimilar to 'let us know', Alexander. I do not see myself going there, much less for...Christmas Day. No." "Pity." "No." "Because that house has an aura, I'm not sure you've noticed it." "I have, in your behaviour when you've been visiting it." "It turns us all on, that house." "Errors in -- attribution." "Maybe so. Your brother says it's the air." "Pure science." "Kitty, I've always wanted...." "No, you have not." "Very quietly!" "Out of the question." "Mhm. And if they were to give me anything alcoholic, again --" "I beg your pardon!" "Can you really have four men cooped up in a small house in the winter, and expect all of them to hold off?" He looked disgusted, ha. "Assuredly, for an afternoon, albeit --" "Mmm?" "-- One indistinguishable from...eternity," he said, shaking his head at his own incoherence. (One afternoon? Is he seriously thinking we will not spend a night or two, there?) The car rolled along and we looked at each other for several long, rather warm moments. "They wouldn't hear a thing", I said, "and you, darling, would always know you'd got away with it". He put his face in his hands. "For once," he replied through his fingers, rubbing his brow, though I could hear a small smile in his words, "will you stop being so sensual." 

(No, I won't.)

Christmas in Eastbourne. OMG, am I only dreaming this? My cock wouldn't know the difference. 


	10. Matching

_18 Dec._

A welcome text -- there's been a cancellation at Timot, which I'd not even counted on, but so pleased, and it's for the 21st! Perfection!! (Must thank N!) I've been wanting to take M out for an age, that is since 13 Oct., when we had a brilliant evening at H & his panic over blood &c. That is literally the worst, to him -- that, and leaving marks on me. I don't know how to tell him without providing context: not out of the ordinary.

For the record, book, since we're getting a bit better acquainted, it has been exactly that long.

Morning at the F & C Office, more specifically talking to someone in international cybersecurity about a recently-planned review (kitty suspected it was revised to protect someone's particular R&D interests), and then what was nearly lunch over hypersonic systems and autonomous security, an extension of a problem with some analysts' interpretations of AI involvement in deterrent tech, which kitty fears has stemmed from a lack of communication -- that in fact the capabilities of particular hypersonic weapons are not fully understood, and many are merely projects, and the intent and funding are of greater importance, and that traditional 'roadblocks' are useless. Beautiful volume...when he talks like that he is a sight to behold, yet few manage to look him in the eye. I find it frustrating that decision making (the responsibility) is so frightening. Very little is done (elections nigh) & M tires of giving useful signals to people who shelve them for the sake of convenience. 

At my place for tea close to five; M was talking through international commentaries / fallout after the Paris incident. The investigation has been quick; 3 have been arrested. M mentioned that the flat had zero accoutrements -- no signs of having been occupied for more than a day or two, which seems impossible, given the lengthy period needed for planning & reconnaissance, by others. And the bizarre ownership of the flat itself -- tied up in litigation and empty for years -- no inkling among family members so far of having expected 'houseguests'. M connected the style loosely used by (FSB) some years ago, explaining that the investigators intentionally lay a path of blame pointing vaguely abroad in the interests of moving forward with 'retaliatory' sanctions when it is a local network of 'lost' equipment and the profile or form of 'disruption' that he and others in the intelligence community are interested in. "You never know who is nearby, do you. Look how close I've lived to the Home Office, for over three decades", I said. M grinned knowingly -- he was practically circling this block for years, never imagining . (How could we have even started to imagine? Even given my 'boundless' fantasies, or all the intricate cataloguing and subtle dovetailing his brain can manoeuvre on anything, who would have dared to imagine?) 

He said that once he knew of my existence, he had gone as far as to avoid the VT Gardens unless he had foreign visitors who wanted to take pictures from that side. And when he understood he had taken an interest, at least an interest-in-taking-more-interest, he tended to avoid the area completely, much as we cannot always understand other types of procrastination or skirting of things, except that we are anxiously circling them thereby making them focal points. Or not that, because we avoid looking at them. Anyhow.

He really should have stopped me at my doorstep (he knew some of my habits & when I left my flat for walks or to catch a cab or to mass, he could have...introduced himself, deduced at will: "Ah. The wait was a painful one, Mr. Nussbaum. Now take those off for us." 

_19 Dec._

Vince Clemenza was completely wrecked this morning; I went to choose gifts, possibly for S & J, and found the place still dark & locked at 10:15, so I texted & he came out to look, reluctantly let me in. I don't know where Carter was, but V was falling apart after another night & row over Lord knows what. I told him I didn't want details but he explained more than enough, sobbing like a child -- he offered a stack of silk accessories as an apology (dropped a entire armful of them in front of me on their leather-covered side table where I was standing, and ran off to the back office with a wail) & I told him I'd rather he shaved his cheeks for a start, because nothing more could be done -- Carter doesn't return his feelings and will not leave his ladyfriend, &c. Mercy. I've occasionally needed others to make order with me when I was too depressed to look into a mirror at myself, so I gave a bit of that back to the universe, shall we say. He did agree & made do with a poor blade he had in his personal things & I rang ahead to Frederick, who I'd planned to see, alone. You see, book, those two artisans had been working two and a half blocks from each other for more than 15 years & had never met (!) so I decided to play 'matchmaker'.

Kitty has just written that he's dropping in.

\--

M brought me a late lunch (from Gladys!) & gave me a wonderful kiss, the first of many to come, later. And now he is off somewhere else. It was all I could do not to tell him about Timot but that is for tonight.

Anyhow, V. I waited for V & folded all the scarves, cravats and pochettes he'd tossed at me. There must have been at least fifty of them! Macclesfield silk twill is a favourite of kitty's and mine -- though under the circumstances, I couldn't appreciate the prints & colourways, much. As it is nearly Christmas -- people tried the door while I was there & I couldn't answer it! Perhaps a dozen men, or more. The quarter hour I'd asked Frederick for at 11 -- to choose a gift & give him my holiday wishes -- turned into a very interesting show of...naughty pants, which F & I had designed & which are licensed in Brazil, &c. I took full advantage of the German & told F that V might be a brilliant work partner (assistant!); F regarded him carefully but not guardedly; it was just an idea of mine, though not a bad one: F needs highly skilled help and Carter needs to find another way to 'relieve tension' or V might do something foolish. I doubt M will approve of my intervention in this regard.

_20 Dec._

Father T pointed out several days ago when we were talking about nurturing marriage that attentive communication, physical touch, respect, and intentional compromise made in the Holy Spirit "may need new means from time to time though love is the lasting element, reflective of God's pure love". So much penance...and a lot to reflect on. 

\-- 

After M and I'd had a cold supper last night I excused myself & went to my office -- because I'd made a card for him with a handwritten invitation to dinner. I had just enough burgundy ink left for it! I couldn't find it at first but I'd brilliantly hidden it in you, book. Anyhow, I came back & he stood up, & I told him I wanted to take him out on Thursday, late, & got a long blink. So the card was a bit redundant but he opened it & read it, anyhow. He stepped over to set it on my kitchen table & I think I was about to go gather up our cups & said -- "I'd like to --" and nothing more, because he grasped me by the arms and kissed me breathless, walking me carefully to the doorway & pressing my shoulders back against the door frame. (Just where there is still a knife mark from where David recorded for posterity that he was taller, in 2000!) 

Oh, beautiful one, the warmth of M's chest was what I felt most then (after surprise) but then as we got in closer, I could think only of that, his heat, spreading into me at every contact point -- chest -- hip -- thigh & then tongue -- it was very hot and pushing insistently into my mouth as though pleasure was the only urgent thing left on his mind. Then he was reaching just behind my spine to switch off the light, brushing my arse & leaving us in a dim grey-blue of early evening, cut with shafts of yellow city lights reflected from windows and filtered by the curtains & I then felt those fingers at my chin, tipping it up & he put his lips on my throat, licked it lightly & sighed & I moaned for more & he said, "the way you've opened your mouth is all I thought of after seeing you last and the rest --" (I tugged open my shirt, here, because it was rubbing me too much) "-- is likely to be -- forgive --" (I had to stop that sentence.) I don't know what more he'd have said, but he cupped my shoulder & led me to the sofa, & when he came back to tonguing into me again, his lips tasted like roses from the cologne on my neck. He moved lower again & I tried to finish getting out of my shirt & he put a line of kisses along my collarbone & lower & I couldn't stop myself unbuttoning my trousers, I was so warm & excited he'd taken my invitation to heart & why shouldn't I try to get him inside of me? That is more or less where I was -- I put a hand in my pants and he covered it with his, leaned over me with one hot palm wrapped at my hip, to still me.

He kissed me, and kissed me, kissed me. Hungry. He unbuttoned himself & pulled open his shirttails so I could suck him & I got down over him to lick him & take him out -- magnificent, desperately hard & he started to thrust up into my mouth straight away, his hands moving through my hair, trembling in the thighs & close from the start, then from a small pause I made, tipping into a sudden, intense orgasm that left him panting & nibbling at a word or two on his lips he couldn't quite say, which I would have kissed out of him but he needed to catch his breath. I had to come so badly by then I knelt in his lap and gave him a show he won't forget & told him naughty things I'd dreamt of him & how I'd licked my own fingers, sucking them as he sucked my cock the last time -- that's how it was -- and thinking of him when alone & as soon as he'd parted the pants open & traced over my hole, his tongue probing mine, still needy, I came all over his shirt. It was always a favourite of mine. 

That finger, I mean. OMG his tongue. The sound of his breathing: even, but louder than he would allow himself, anywhere else. I have to, forgive me, beautiful one, but I need it


	11. Happy solstice

_21 Dec._

J called to ask if M & I had got his text -- M had not got back to him, so I accepted on our behalf & rang Gladys to ask her for one of her main courses to take along and she surprised me by volunteering before I could broach the subject, that is, I said 'guinea' and she, the rest!

I've just left a message for M that we're going to Eastbourne.

No answer so far! I will leave you for now because I have some more details to straighten out for tonight.

_22 Dec._

Timot did not disappoint. What a charming evening we had -- the place is very interesting inside, ochre, gold, with brushed brass panelling (tiled) in geometric textures with long, coral pink, semi-opaque blown glass fixtures along ceiling -- also a repeating, brushed metal concentric-sort-of motif. The chairs were massive and blocky, low backed. The floor was very old and had been brought in a barge from Indonesia, apparently; the boards were long, worn by real feet and not merely gouged and antiqued. M noticed that, of all things -- when we first met at the door and walked in, his eye went straight to that floor, as if he were calculating who the owners must have known. We were seated in a back corner and to M's satisfaction there were no windows, draughts, paths to other diners, and the like. He had me sit with my back to the dining room, and our waiter, Brother Nate, lit a large beeswax candle in the centre of the table and darted away. M ignored the small menu card set on a plate in front of his hands and stared across at me, intently. Yes. I thought of him unbuttoning his trousers for me and smiled -- visualising goals, shall we say. I joked, "aren't we a bit far from the door for quick evacuation, though, haha" and M replied, "No, a glance into the kitchen will show you we have the best chances in the room. They have two rear exits, one to an alleyway and another to a one-way street with no parking allowed on the pavements." "What?" "Multiple sources of open fire, three large extinguishers, or if you please, large bottles of spirit, bags of legumes and mullet, a block filled with carving knives on the right, not counting those out in view -- the sharpest. Most of the mop handles are aluminium, useless. But the kitchen staff are completely out of training aside from one, who would stand aside out of fear of being discovered." "You're kidding. Oh, and you've not got your umbrella, either." "Go and have a look, if you like. The front entrance has heavy double doors, the sidewalk is narrow and partly blocked...infeasible, moving 23 people out that door quickly." He seemed about to say something new, and then swallowed it. I guessed rightly that he wanted to move the subject of Eastbourne. 

Well. He confirmed he's (resigned to) going. Given in. Still unenthusiastic. I asked him how the rest of his day had gone and he answered that he could say "nothing of more interest" to me than what was already on my mind. "No? When has that ever been the case?" I asked. He raised a brow and replied, "The latest draft of trade agreements with Bulgaria, concerning the sea as I mentioned, and a visit from a Dutch agricultural lobby, who argued convincingly about three key problems we face in water management in the upcoming 20 years, an eye opening perspective to some. Timely. And, the wording of the ceasefire stands, and we expect it to outlast the others. The Swedish question -- ah, I see you've chosen for us? Cheeses, then partridge and dates? Thank you." "For what, darling?" "Among other things, for your barely concealed impatience. It is flattering, to me, and becoming, to you." 

OMG, that he can say things like that. It wasn't always so. May he realise better and better how much I love him.

We talked for some time; I was able to report (and will report to you, too) that I've finished my drawing (an announcement I wish I could make more often). He reached out for my hand and brushed his fingers over mine, and asked, "Can I see it?" Dear God, yes, set me face down on my desk & fuck me all over it. (Actual thoughts, for context.) Finally, he dropped his gaze to the menu card, which by all rights ought to have caught fire and picked it up, turned it over (thank you, brother Nate) and saw that it was finished in my handwriting................... ha ha

He coughed a bit and turned pink at the collar. And he pocketed it. "Do you keep them somewhere?" I asked. He looked distracted, not to say confused. "Ah, the notes? Yes, of course." "I adore yours." "As for the last of them, I ought to have written its key, and nothing more." "No, you were quite right. I know you meant all of it." We were interrupted there. Nate was very sweet as I'd already found out by calling in early with all my requests & he approached & offered a beautiful little oval plate of appetisers, mainly little bits of terrible cheeses with swirls of wild currants I could not hope to digest in my life, and to kitty, he offered a very good Tokaij; when M saw it he was so surprised, and pleased. "For a 'lovely flash of intelligence and good mood', in the 'depths of your soul' to quote Voltaire", N said. (That I did not ask for!) 

M flicked a surgical glance over him -- yes, they do exist, and might feel to a stranger like being undressed on a cold table -- you'd have to know him. It couldn't have been more than a second or two but N lost his nerve & the bottle slipped right out of his hand. He was trying to set it exactly between us and avoid the candle flame; kitty lunged & snatched its neck with one hand & shaded the candle with the other, anticipating rightly that N would bump it next (!) -- hard to explain -- so it wouldn't throw wine and wax my way. It brought to mind the kitchen escape scenario he'd just described & I got even hornier than before. Adrenaline by proxy! I laughed though N was mortified (likely because half of that bottle had been promised to someone else; I couldn't source more than two glasses for the evening; it was brought from a broker's (?) complicated -- I suppose it's well-liked? I'm not the one to ask). N then came to & apologised for his clumsiness & 'trying a diner's outstanding reflexes' "Not at all", M answered, and that much he did mean. Once N had again apologised (OMG, I thought he would lose it), composed his face & left for the kitchen, kitty said, "Mm. Butterscotch, and almond, perfection." (It smelled like mead to me.) "I'm glad", I said. I know that he loves those sweet and aromatic ones. He sipped and sighed contentedly, very nice to see. And took a bit of awful cheese, ech, but enjoyed that, as well. "You've made exquisite choices, little one." "I had help. Speaking of which. Exquisite choices and not help?" He shook his head. "May I just say how wonderful it's been to spend another year with you. You have taken so much care, and brought so much happiness into my life. A toast to us, then? Happy holidays, happy solstice, darling, when the night comes on fastest and lasts longest." And he stared again, until I began to wonder if it was more searching, or lingering. I was hoping for the latter, of course. Finally he raised his glass. "Thank you for the privilege," he said. Five words. His eyes were so dark.

Why don't I do these things with him, more? Granted, we live in such comfort that one doesn't necessarily feel a need for more, but for a change, for a bit of time out, among people, that was very nice indeed.

We got back late, to my place. He loved the drawing & studied it at my desk while I changed for bed. 

A loose blouse, so he could slide a hand in it and wrap it over the base of my ribs. (His hands are large enough that he can hold quite a lot of me at the waist & it scares him a bit, though I find it rather comical -- what should I think?) When he stepped closer, still in his dress shirt, I was sensitive enough that the edges of rubbing my thighs were tickling me through the silk. He leaned forward to kiss my neck and I started shivering, though it wasn't cold and I was not tired, just wound up very tight, so that when I felt him pull the neckline aside, and how his nose and lips were slowly dragging down toward my shoulder, I couldn't resist laughing a bit at how beautiful it all was. I caught myself living. That is not something I expect you to understand, pretty one, but I need you the way you are, too. Please help me remember things like this night. 

The scrape of stubble over my shoulders -- forever one of my favourite parts of our evenings. That said, I have places where I can't feel anything, book, and it is only when I am very turned on that I can enjoy being kissed anywhere around my chest. He knows that and there are moments when I could scream, out of oversensitivity and undersensitivity at strange times. He has some of those, as well. It's hard to explain. (The way his hands have always been so warm and dry, that when he cups my back, beneath my shoulder-blade, I can't stop myself arching against it.) That's how it was. And he looked up at me, thanked me again for a beautiful evening -- “Dinner was equal parts delight and agony”, he admitted between kisses, because it had been lovely, very -- and could I kindly say more about the dessert. Ha! Fine, I'll tell you.

"Dessert, as I wrote, is 'you'. Because, darling, dessert is what one often wishes..." "Came first." He groaned. Yes, my jokes are awful. Some require reduced blood in the brain to appreciate. And he stepped even closer and kissed my ear, and I shut my eyes and when I felt his nose nudge mine and how ragged his breath sounded, my room filled with gorgeous sound, and suddenly reduced to door and bed, I put my arms around his shoulders and gave myself over, first to his fingers at my cheek and his thumb tracing over my mouth, and then at the way he gently tugged it open until I smiled and bit it. Mainly so he would remember how wet my tongue was and give it something to do. His other hand was stroking down my back. "I need you to remind me of something, can you?" I said. "Yes? Of?" he asked, his hand pushing down into my pants, a finger just reaching between my arse cheeks. 

And he did.


	12. What is counted

_23 Dec._

I. Critical burden data on ventricular pacing and its particular values in variables affecting dependency to degrees (number and duration of ventricular pacing periods, mean rates, modes, rate-responsive pacing, unknown variables notwithstanding) are lacking.

II. No reported specific data exist for pacemaker dependency in ICD patients who do not have standard indications for pacing; few analogous baselines for comparison are accessible in the literature.

III. Molecular and electrophysiological mechanisms of increased pacemaker dependency, as well as potential effects of pharmaceutical or electrical therapeutic interventions, have not been investigated.

IV. Exact effects of any single underlying medical condition, medication, or other potentially modifiable risk factors are unknown.

V.-VI. Your toes curled, stopping legs sliding forward on bed covers.

\--

M wrote that! I asked him to note down what he was thinking about. He's sitting next to me in bed, reading, because I felt lightheaded earlier at the table. He says it is weather related and that the room was too warm. So here we are. It's lovely, very quiet tonight after a lot of wind and heavy rains, for days.

I'm also dreading those tests but mostly because I don't want to work with a trainer, afterward. I know. But: fitness trainer tropes and strappy pants. I don't know how to tell ginger kitty that. 

Okay, I've just told him. He rolled his eyes so hard it had to hurt. (Sometimes he makes the exact same faces as S!) I'm looking forward to seeing S and J very much.

\--

One of M's working languages is Javanese and he reads Indonesian political events and religious history in it for practise. Anyhow, he also had Southeast Asia on the brain today and drew a comparison to something in a decision structure and brought in the flooring at Timot, which as I surmised correctly, had been of interest (Gracious Mother, I am starting to write like him): "The boards / well worn, in a rippling pattern characteristic of flooring in sacral buildings. Wear from carpets, feet, knees. Furnishings. Humidity. Water. Salvaged, after the Boxing Day tsunami in 2004, and as the co-owner is Surabayan, he may have had a rather personal reason for bringing those boards, as you put it, 'by barge to the UK'." OMG. 

\--

That remark about the floor touched me. M may have anticipated that because he immediately set down his work and petted me. He said, "Alexander" (w/ seriousness), "little dove, there is something I must speak to you about, before we go to Eastbourne. It is nearly inevitable he will provoke me, or both of us, and drop names. Listen, please. You included a point in the notes from your meeting (M&B with Simone) which I admit I had not heard of. That in itself is worrying though I can see why it may have been so -- the timing. Forgive the preamble, as it has served to introduce a puzzled state of mind, and noting more. In brief, I have been unable to confirm the scenario it suggested." "Oh?" I asked. He sighed, "And, I won't want to talk about it for the first time in the presence of a new solicitor --" 

I stopped him right there. "Kitty, I don't plan to create a divorce or separation plan. I promise, those were only notes." I had been wanting to bring that up, it was bothering me to no end. "Ah. I have not created one, either." "Kitty, it was presented as a standard product like all of their 'legacy' management services. No matter how foolish it sounds to someone objective, I refuse to make any plans for divorce." And I lost it. I don't know what I was talking about at a certain moment. He pulled me closer to his side. "Plan as you see fit. However, I meant something else. Concerning your estate, two things." He petted me and kissed my head, kept his nose in my hair. "About the ownership of this nano device? Can we not?" "No, not that." "Whatever it is, I don't want to go into it before Christmas. I'm going to miss Abram so much &c". 

I've even looked at the list again but I am not seeing anything new in it.

_24 Dec._

At M's again, tonight. Gladys has confirmed that she will have her special stuffed guinea for us to take, and soup in a sort of steel tankard (?)

Oddly, J & M independently suggested I not stay over (in E), and they both used that expression "danger night"! M has been fretting again (or it may be an extension of the initial worrying) over J's 'true intent' in inviting him. He is convinced he is supposed to look for something, namely he is worried about S's health. "That is his way when he experiences emotional difficulties -- he stops giving orders and starts placing things in view to receive an opinion, deferring the burden of decision &c". I reminded him that people change, for one, and about all the invitations he refuses, weekly, and how this one is unusually pleasant, and need not cause so much distraction and self-doubt, that it's family. He replied, "your invitations are the only ones I consider unusually pleasant, and I count those from HRH." 

I think I was supposed to have followed up on that, but let him wait a little! I plan to spend the evening on prayers, in fact.

Ha, M just came in to kiss me goodnight, again. 

He apologised for scraping my lip a bit but it felt very nice. "You didn't give me a beard for the holidays", I reminded him, "and I'd have put up with all sorts of scrapes to be able to kiss it, now". He hummed. "And in the meantime, you gave me the Escenzia -- from 2007, a lapse in reason I might have scolded you for, if you weren't also among the most frugal, modest and altruistic people I have ever met. You should have everything you ask for." (I didn't know what to say to that!) "That cannot be wise, kitty, because the most prominent things about me tend to be those I did not ask for." He kissed my nose!!! 

"Was that wine expensive relative to others people tend to drink with dinners like that? I don't know?" I asked. M sighed loudly, "Yessss." "But did you like it, is what I care about." "It was memorable. The bouquet, incomparable to anything else, yes, I certainly did like it. It had next to no alcohol. You ought to have tried it." "Mmm, no. Not everyone likes male lap-dancers." He chuckled, and left me to try to fall asleep. 

...I love him!!!

Goodnight!


	13. Rainy with a chance of Christmas

_25 Dec._

Kitty and I are driving to Eastbourne! That is, M is driving us. And, as he told me over breakfast a few minutes ago, it will not be his car, but one "the colour of the first stockings" he gave me, and with diplomatic number plates. He was making jokes re. his driving skills -- rather scary at times, to be honest, though not as breathtaking as Roman Wilk's constant weaving through traffic -- and about how close the words 'immunity' and 'impunity' can be. In a word, he wants to be there on time. Gracious Peter and Paul. 

I wish he would let me sit in the front seat, someday. 

Perhaps I shouldn't have mentioned 'road head'. 

\--

When we got there (12:51 -- I recall that we had nine minutes to spare, ha) it was pouring & I was dizzy from the ride but gathering my handful of remaining wits; M turned in the front seat and set his chin on his arm, studying me thoughtfully as the windows started to fog up. "Little one", he said, "there is a bag in the boot and should you want to stay, we'll send Rodney down the day after tomorrow. I doubt my brother will think to ask you. Ah, wait, please. Let me look at you." "What would you like to look at?" I asked. "A beautiful and rational being", he murmured. I said, "So I hope you've got one of those in the boot, as well!" That caught him and he laughed rather suddenly. His face tensed up again, however. "Wait for me to come round before you try to get out, and hold my arm, please." I had to kiss him as soon as I got out of that stuffy car & made sure to bite him a little so he'd remember it while eating. Because I was certain we would sit and eat. (He did not seem convinced.) 

It was perhaps ten yards to the house, though the ground was soaked & rain had covered their cracked stepping stones. M had to hold my waist and I leaned over a large puddle & knocked on the outer door for us. S opened it immediately, and J was so close behind that he almost got hit in the face. M couldn't put out a hand though I felt him start at it. S let me in & M handed me the umbrella -- it was awkward -- as J clapped my shoulder and started to say something to me but got hit with water from the thing because I snapped it shut too suddenly. He huffed, brushed some water off his brow & pushed past us & went back out with M, to get Gladys' guinea and soup. (Confirmed: no beautiful, rational being hidden in the boot.) They brought it all in just as S had finished arranging my coat, scarf and hat neatly on a double-hook for me. He waved around at J's handiwork on cleaning up their living/dining room. 

M re-entered first, with the guinea in a locked, square metal case, the type you'd expect to find full of wires and dials, or worse. Insulated. J's hair and jumper were all beaded with raindrops, as he sighed and set a military-type steel thermos bottle with a threaded lid and awful riveted panels onto the floor, before kicking off his shoes. He seems to dislike heavy rain, poor dear. They get plenty of it. He joined M, close to the fireplace, to dry off.

So there we all were. S & I had hardly exchanged a hug & a remark or two. I'd handed him their gifts in a paper bag! They'd no tree, he was pleased to point out. But he kept waiting, with ostentatious impatience, for M to leave -- perhaps because he was still in his topcoat and shoes, though that was only because S had not acknowledged his presence, at all. In fact, S's first remark on a more public forum was to me: "Right-o. Hurry along, say your goodbyes!" M looked at me blankly. "No. I never say my goodbyes quickly", I answered, holding M's eyes for a little fuck. (J saw it.) S hummed, "You're a heart patient!" "Exactly, so fun comes first and foremost. Shall we have a lovely dinner?" "Weellll. Too bad it's Christmas...and he's here", S retorted, and looked over at J. J cleared his throat and sniffed. 

"What." S blinked. "John?"

Oh, dear. 

J raised his brows in a silent challenge and then declared, "Mycroft's staying." "As drivers for the diplomatic service will do", S replied. J gave him a look I'd not want to be on the receiving end of. "Goodbyes", he said, "will come later on. And not before we're good and done eating, and we've spent some time together. As a family." S went a strange colour. "Oh, for God's sake!" he growled. "That was the surprise? You couldn't just make it a pair of cufflinks, nooooo. No. Because we have 'family', ooooh. Sentimental. Never gives up". M smiled at J, tightly and even a shade apologetically. J gestured for M's coat, M removed it efficiently, J went to hang it up, and then on the way back, signalled to me to get in the kitchen. All without a word. He was coughing, a bit. S followed, glaring over at my jacket as if he'd been interested in it all along: "That...was once...soaked in urine." "It probably was", I confirmed. "Of dead men. The material dates from around 1970, possibly as early as 1967". "Right you are. I was thinking you'd enjoy having a look at it?" "Show me. Stitching new. Neat. Still no chance you'll switch up." "Sorry? No, you know I have a terrible time getting rid of my old things." He rolled his eyes & made a face over at M: "We know." J immediately muttered from behind us, "Shhhut!" I didn't really know what to say (when the ball is so clearly kicked into your court and you've never been much for sport, what can you do?). M was keeping his own mouth closed, and his face relatively clear of tells -- I deeply admire that. But, you can always count on me for 1) hospital jokes or 2) coarse ambiguity. I heard myself say, "But they feel fantastic when you have one on you." J laughed, and even S had to smile -- so proud he got fucked earlier on. Probably something along the lines of "be kind & you'll get fucked like that again tomorrow" ha ha. 

S ran a fingertip over my forearm. "Pass it over, I want to burn an edge." "I got it for my birthday." "Yet you've haven't been out much in it, only once before today." OMG. At least he didn't start deducing kitty. He'd not worn a waistcoat, and anyone could clearly see how gorgeously fit he has got. 

\--

Before I go any further, because in fact I need a little break from thinking about all that tension, I found out shortly afterwards that Gladys and J both served in Afghanistan. Moreover, they met in hospital over there, and apparently have not seen one another since. (I'd assumed she had a military background, as the majority of the medical personnel I have known through M work for our secret services or have worked during military operations.) When J opened that metal box and smelled the guinea, and then found out that M has a lovely older live-out housekeeper / former cardiac nurse named Gladys McSimmons, he froze up and nodded, then closed the box gently and marched off to the toilet. S had not been aware of that connection. (Not that he'd ever popped by!) 

He acted as if I'd kept that precious bit of information from him, purposely, when I'd had no clue, either. I never asked kitty where he'd found her. J came back a few minutes later and mumbled that he'd like to meet up and see her some time. And the next thing he said was, "Would you just get around the table already, you there, you over there, you next to me", &c, once he had loaded everything onto serving plates and I'd set out more tableware. 

Because I can always do a quick fork-count or carry glasses to the table, one at a time, while talking about rubbish.

S finally snapped partway through the soup, as he can when someone is too soft toward him and he doesn't want to give in -- and why would he, when he was sitting on pins, in front of M. I can only suppose it had to do with the tragic anniversary they have on Christmas. I tried to start a conversation that didn't concern weather, driving or construction in the City: "Looking back at another year, there is so much to be grateful for." I thought it would be universal enough. "Oooh, yes. For your charmed existence of casual privilege as Schrödinger's secretary?" M stiffened when he heard it, so it was probably something between them. "My teeth would have scared the other children, so they kept me out of school, and I don't know what that means", I said. "Blank slates, best slates", S sighed. "Shut it", J whispered, and I could see he was trying to follow all of that, too. M remarked to S, "I've admitted to mistakes. We've moved on." That must have cost him a lot of nerve. I was so touched by that I wanted to stand up and invite him back out to the car, for front-garden head. J nodded and crossed his arms high on his chest, though it didn't hide the regularity and depth of his breathing. "Anyhow. As I was saying, thank --" I tried to continue. It didn't work. "You're all making me sick", S growled, and grasped a handful of his fringe -- getting a headache, as anyone could see. "Brother", M replied, "I wonder...." "-- Ibuprofen! And the saccharine that's frankly dripping off you people!" S spat back. 

"Really?" M asked.

I think I kind of gasped, there. Drugs, honestly? S reacted, "Ha, of course, it would have to be drugs, not just all of your grating and mind-bending selves!" I chose to look at J, and found him staring down at his plate. I said, "Surely you aren't including your husband in that. I was just thinking how this is the most people I've spent Christmas Day with in --" "Eighteen years", M filled in. "Has it been?" I asked. S snorted and shook his head, "God!" J cleared his throat and said gruffly, "Been nine, for me. Went out once with some of the guys from New Scotland Yard, Lestrade and Anderson, just saying, or it would have been longer. No sense in looking back, though." 

There was a nice moment when M simply raised his glass and looked at J, and said something to the effect of, "May we avoid failure, through the economy of our decisions in the New Year". J got a faraway expression, before nodding. "Here, here," he said, quietly. S reached for his glass a moment too late, and I sat and watched. "Just one more," J said, "For, uhm. For. Uhm. Our family." And he nearly lost it for a moment -- from the side, I could see it. I put my arm in his and startled him. I looked up at M, who was staring into the bottom of his glass. S addressed me: "Shouldn't you have become a prized diplomat by now? Or is that why you can't find your tongue?" "Love, pretty sure he does what he can", J said. S went on, "Mm. Another long game." "I doubt any of us fully understand what you're referring to", M answered, glancing at me appreciatively while J shrugged agreement. "Mmm." "Must I ask what you intended to say?" M enquired. "Loves asking questions", S said, "never answers them. Alex, did he ever explain what happened to Roman? Or that threadbare, lovelorn photojournalist who was hoping to stand in for your CPAP mask? Where is he?" "I haven't thought about it." (That is not true, but let us not write about that.) "No? Gruen? Culver? No?" 

Well, book. ('Loves asking questions, never answers them'. Really?)

OMG. I'm quite tired tonight, so I will finish this when I can. I'm at home, for the record. And M explained the reference to Schrödinger, thoroughly.


	14. That man

_26 Dec._

"The newest of my mistakes, attending his spectacle", M said when we were in the car on the way back to London yesterday evening. He did tell me a few stories about their Christmases and how S would slice open the gifts early and alter their contents! It's a pity they didn't share those at the table. But it was too tense. 

Before bed, we had a long talk in my room, and I held his chest while he petted my neck (and one shoulder). Griefs -- coming back to what he'd said at the frozen lake, as I recently described to you. Scar tissue as love, left un-given: by far the most memorable metaphor. 

_27 Dec._

I joined M at his place for brunch at 10, and we called J to thank him for everything. He said he'll want to come up and visit Gladys if she's good with that idea. He has difficulty talking about her for long & mentioned the guinea, again, instead. Despite how I wrote it out, I'm glad we met up and celebrated together. There were some moments I'd rather put behind us though the pleasure of sitting at the table with my husband for Christmas was, well, even now I tear up when I think about how lucky I am. I told kitty I'm worried about J; he was not feeling well and I am beginning to think S's behaviour was in reaction to a larger problem we don't know enough about. M admitted over tea he'd "hoped to leave with fewer uncertainties" (that is more or less how he expressed it). The deductions he made there point to a certain decline S's mental condition (I would still say J's). M was puzzled by the choice of insults, as they were often aimed at my ignorance, which M interpreted as "acceptance", knowing that the worst insults to him (in his eyes) would be barbs aimed toward me, or something of the sort. He explained it more elegantly. He added that he could not rule out prescription drug use (!!) but suspects S might in fact be making his own liquids and smoking (vaping) them when J is out. "Did you note how he cleared his throat?" he asked. I told him I thought the air could be a factor. He shook his head at that and remarked that after the aviary flu S cannot indulge in liquids. 

\--

I don't know where to begin but it is about Carly and in no way will it be easy to accept this state of things, any time soon. Without you, Mother, I will not know how. 

I am shaking all over and I'm afraid to go into any other room, lest I wreck things, because I have already dropped you, twice, haven't I. So I am the blue room, listening to Radio 3.

Kitty is at a very long hearing.

Life offers itself to be interpreted, drawn, caught on film, remembered, or recorded onto us.

\--

Thankfully M is on his way, now.

It started like this: I'd found myself looking out into the garden while we were talking about some plans for the upcoming month. He was about to leave the house. I got a feeling of dread & it filled my entire body, stomach to throat, like a rippling, expanding thing that suddenly collapsed away, leaving me close to fainting. It reminded me of the feeling when one has truly understood a loss. But I didn't know where it had come from. I set my head and hands against the glass in front of me and asked M to come. He got to my side so quickly I didn't even feel his arm go round my waist until he turned me around. He put a hand on my throat, then held my chin and looked me. "Measured breaths, little one. Listen." "What is the matter with me." "You didn't want to hear it before Christmas, I see you've realised it. Your list?" "What is wrong with the list I wrote!" "I have been in touch with my contacts in Bogota, to no avail -- thus far", he whispered, then covered my ear and shouted toward the kitchen, "Gladys!"

And I told him I didn't know what he was talking about. Because I truly did not.

Gladys appeared and took me from there.

I was so blind: through all the chattering on about 'legacy planning' and divorce contingency planning, it appears I own the rights to Carly's entire artistic output -- everything!! A priceless gift though one I would never have wanted, for a moment. It came to me. Why must I always be that man. 

Mother, why am I that man!

I've been in bed. I need to put you aside.

\--

"Alexander, you were bequeathed ARR to a body of published photographs, meaning you are the beneficiary of royalties payable; you are also the specified beneficiary of a very large archive of unpublished photographs -- I assume including sensitive material, from at least eighteen countries, which must be carefully audited before any of it is released to a wider audience, as you may someday choose to do through [F8&C]. Mr. Carlton Parsons is, may I emphasise, missing. And not officially. The decision to transfer ownership of the archives came from Parsons himself, in writing. A letter, photographed, & retained in cloud memory, and the original posted to a colleague, some months ago; a scan of that note is in your files, with the solicitor's. There was a delay; that individual 'forgot' to complete Mr Parsons' instructions until the 25th of November. I had no knowledge of this prior to your showing me the notes from your meeting...." 

I cried, a lot. Well. You were there & why would you want to be reminded?

Kitty told me: "Despite what you imagine of me, I had not monitored him, no. We ran checks & his current location could not be pinpointed, &c from what I discovered through discreet, may I repeat, unofficial contacts, near his last known location & that of his mobile uplink the population experienced severe rains and local flooding, a series of mudslides (in Columbia) where he was known to be photographing vagrants and local communities nearest the outposts once inhabited by partisan warlords; some of those photographs were uploaded to his archives though possibly not all" &c OMG "There is no evidence he placed himself in harm's way."

I consider that sort of work putting one's self in harm's way, though granted, many other stories he covered were even riskier. "As per his own instructions, your estate took ownership of his work. The timing of Dr. Abram Mahlersohn's stroke is suggestive." 

That is a devastating deduction, in itself.

C wrote me a note once I'd stopped speaking to him & I cannot even remember all of it, aside from "if push comes to shove -- rights to my work". It was nearly three years ago & I was not keeping good records of anything, not that I ever have, of what matters. 

I shouldn't have written that -- of course, I have recorded my and M's love. But I meant I ought to have written something of that note down, before boiling it to pieces in a pot! I suppose I imagined he was exaggerating. Though I'd told him we'd never speak again. Was I wrong? Why can't I even recall what we were arguing about?

My blood pressure doesn't feel right. Toilet, awful. Dehydrated.

\--

Perhaps he has chosen to close that part of his life. But why did the archives have to come to me?


	15. Not

_29 Dec._

C is alive. I could stop there for all the relief I feel, and give you some relief, too. However, I will insist on being myself. (M said this morning, "As you have rightfully insisted" though that was about nudging the HoL to proceed at a less infuriating pace on a vote.) 

\--

Back. I'm terribly agitated, for a relieved person, or maybe this is a realistic, un-cinematic reaction? If only I could raise a well shaken martini and nod a saucy wink in the direction of my next victim: "I don't think the dead care about vengeance." I love that line and its delivery. 

Who are we kidding? This is the agent we all want: "As for vengeance, a total waste of resources. Can't you just stay home this morning and I'd suck and ride that."

My husband is literally so far beyond Bond, even after withdrawing so much of his support in our broader European affairs. Here I am, in a short kimono & socks, apparently too horny to hold a fountain pen. Am I the first?

\--

This is mad. Let's try again, shall we? In order, because if I don't get my mind in some-semblance-of-sorted ("get sorted-sort-of", as J would put it) it will also affect M. Even more than it already has. 

He hasn't said much, though "despite what you imagine of me" was delivered with more humility than bitterness, and I do not want to hurt him with more questions if he was making his own inquiries.

It took some doing but I located & messaged the bloke (subject: C. A. Parsons) who "managed the task" of giving Carly's letter to Abram -- currently on assignment in Lyon. Michael Jules Fletcher. I should have remembered the name but as I've had so little to do with F8&C directly, I'd forgotten they'd shown some of his work two years ago or so. He is an acquaintance of C's as well as competitor, refused to speak further on the phone & explained in a brief reply to my email that he's "bypassed" me & does not "want to get any more involved". Carly experienced "a traumatic event" (in Columbia) & returned to Thailand, near Bangkok. And he has left photography. (That is what throws so much into question. I cannot believe that.) The letter in my file does not explain any of that, from what M has said. Kitty was not pleased I'd gone off to the solicitor's like that, but said, "So you will create a tribute worthy of the living. There is nobody better prepared to undertake that than you." "I do not feel any satisfaction or sense of justice", I told him. Because I feel quite troubled and worried I won't manage anyone else's work, particularly since I am completely useless with my own. And his is of substantial value, particularly his work for N. Geographic and the unique documentaries in India. And Chile. Vietnam. Laos. Thailand. Morocco. Iraq. OMG. "All the better, little one. Where many would lack the moral fibre to separate his actions from his work, you'll bring respect. Artistic judgement and disinterest will be just as crucial". That made me cry, because of 'disinterest'. 

He kissed me, a lot, mostly my cheeks. He says he will consult an expert in endowments and archives from the V&A.... Realising now that I've never gone back there since that time I told C off over -- ? I will always adore the Morris room.

I've just noticed that M befriends archivists, much like S befriends cleaners!

\--

I told kitty I'd like to take him to the cafe at the V&A and kiss him in that pretty room, over tea, sometime. He replied, "And were I to bring tea to our own 'Morris-room' tomorrow?" To which I said, "I'd take it with you, and then you'd let me, in reversed-reverse, as you've called it, with you holding my feet in place." He stared. And looked so hungry I nearly reached for his flies. Then he remarked, reflectively, "You have not worn the shoes in at least five months." "You haven't asked. You haven't...asked." "Would it feel forced?" "It wouldn't, to me. And would it, to you, if I accepted?" "No."

One should carefully lead a party to say 'no', claims my psycholinguistic trainer, Randall, who I hope has been decorated by now, for his efforts. Once a refusal of any kind has been given, one can put forward what he wants. We were even, though.

There were still leaves on our trees. When last he.

But he hasn't shaved in four days! He looks wonderful.

_30 Dec._

I had some papers to look at & a small illustration to start planning out. But then came the appalling (though typical) pause in efficacy from noon to four-thirty, while M was out. When it was perhaps a quarter past four, I got in the bath, a third of me rather out of sorts. As if entirely someone else's third. When the water was draining out he was at the door, knocking on it as he does, seven taps (he claims that knocks often have an odd number of taps, and S corroborates that seven is frequent, but I was about to talk about cock so let's not).

I answered as I was, though it is always draughty there, & he told me that providentially (that exact word, which always makes him grin when he enunciates it) he'd already put out tea in the blue room & I grabbed his nape and kissed his cheek. He started to ask what the matter was, and then stopped himself. "Get warm", he said. Warm me, I think I told him. "Wait in the bedclothes", he said, and walked past me into his bedroom. Pale blue, long-sleeved shirt. And I bundled up in the blankets. Don't laugh. I was about to have an attack. 

He appeared in a dark burgundy dressing gown that I like to snatch from his wardrobe from time to time, and which should know to keep its distance by now -- and soft, close fitting house trousers which are a knit cashmere, almost caramel coloured, favourites of mine though I cannot keep them on my waist. One of my better recommendations & snuggling up to them is fantastic even if it never lasts long & they have to come down more quickly than others. His feet were stuffed in midnight blue babouches -- bringing them to me. I wanted to kiss his toes but when I moved over so he could be closer to the tea set, there was no hope of getting at them. He was jokily pouring oolong between my lips for me & kissing my head. Then chasing that tea with his tongue. 

A bit later I pulled him on top of me and asked him to describe some of the things...I am not. It was meant as a game. I started, "Not naked -- not yet. Not made up. Not in roses &c" and he picked it from there, and kissed my cheeks and neck. Some of it was very hot. Then, "Not showing your patience. Not that you should. Not obliged by now to bear limits I place foremost in my mind when not feeling when it begins. Not complaining loudly enough. Not aware just how dear every word from you is to me, Alexander --" and it went downhill from there. I had to stop him, quickly. 

He would have gutted himself. Not what I would ever want. 

Not entirely prepared but needing everything I got. Not able to stop quite in time. 

Not that he minded. 

Not resisting (much) when I put my fingers in him. 


	16. In with the new

_1 Jan._

I was hoping to greet the New Year with his mouth full of me but I fell asleep far too early, after being indulged in all sorts of lovely kisses. It was very good. And were each of us any less melancholy by nature, this might happen more, as I pointed out to him. He always faults himself, and suggests that the ten years he has on me left certain effects. That I know but I would never agree openly. The ladies were not responsive -- or rather gave contradictory signals, as he has paraphrased it & left him believing he was 'in error', or at fault, or inept, as men tend to so easily. We both find in the other's happiness a kind of aphrodisiac. When he is calm & in good spirits he is so affectionate & funny, tickling me a lot (beard!) while talking against my shoulder. And yes, I still want it. I threatened to grow in mine, as well. I can't say I've ever worn one, intentionally. It's nothing pretty -- grey at the jaw line, ginger around my lips (and patchy) with symmetrical whorls on either side of my chin, like my face wants to be drained of all colour, for good. I think I'll stay as I am.

\--

Talking to S: "He claims he needs a change of pace, preferably by the coming weekend." "Did you have a row?" "Have you been reliably updated that we did?" "Not yet, but if we're honest you may have had it coming, dearest one." "We're saving it for V-E day so one of us can sleep outdoors." "So, if you're letting him run off to London, I'll gladly take him in and make things as comfortable as possible for him." "How would you, of all people, achieve that?" he retorted. "I told you, I'll take him in." "Hardly reassuring if not the worst thing I've heard all day." "One that started from crime indexes? You're hurting me." I wanted to scream, to be honest, because seriously. Instead, I said, "I'll treat him like someone else's treasured spouse." "Alex." "You two embody espousal." "And you two, nosegays." Okay, I almost rang off, right then. "Oh, my dear, I promise that someday I will think of a reply to that." "Oh, you know meee, I do liiike to think up silly replies," he said, in a rather devastating imitation of my voice -- OMG, he is getting far too good at that. Thankfully, our M can tell the difference or we'd have had incidents. If we haven't already. M's use of the N-line with me makes more sense, now. Anyhow. I'll look forward to hosting J, here. Must work on my office space so it is restful & not depressing.

\--

Enough time has passed that M can tell me a few facts, which I may also share with J, when he comes to London (next week?). I now know that S & I were given experimental serums, the R&D programs for which have since been de-funded/de-emphasised, much to M's distress, for treating Ebola, of all things. M did not expect such rapid improvement -- that came as a complete shock to the researchers, too, though they were not allowed to write about it. And had it not worked so well, he'd not have given it J, to administer to S. That was also very risky, due to his having had drug-induced seizures, in the past. OMG. He still cannot give me the name but that is certainly interesting. 

He wanted me to know about that and several other matters, before I start going through any of my papers, next week. A lot of secrets that still stack up alongside us, if not between us. There is still the matter of the pacer, as he owns it and I am the beneficiary as long as it functions normally, &c. Well. M said that waiting twenty hours between an opinion & a successful insertion of a pre-market version -- with a battery that has proven in some cases to be flawed, though not mine -- flown in by charter, from a clinic in Alberta (along with a surgeon; I hope to meet him someday and in circumstances that allow us to talk) at a moment's notice, was surreal. But as he put it, we may choose which of the numbers we believe, and he chose the one that was always smaller than fifteen percent no matter who he consulted. I got on him & kissed him, a lot, until he put his hand over mine and squeezed it, gently, that I should stop, so I put my arms around him, instead. Now there is a new year, a new evening, a new hour. I tried to tell him that but he was anxious to stop what was already in his head.

When he comes to kiss me goodnight he'll get a lot of tongue.

I can hear him coming upstairs. Now, in his room. Wandering about, checking things, setting aside clothes for the morning, probably texting. I love this feeling! Not enough to delay him coming in, however.

_3 Jan._

"Live every day to the fullest!" That is the sort of answer you get when you ask, as I have, "how long can I reasonably &c" Do you know why I avoid writing about Cardio? The string of abbreviations & what on earth should I say? "Hi, I'm Alex -- congenital defect of the mitral annulus -- born grey, learnt proper crying with a delay. It wouldn't contract fully and needed repairs & my atrial flutter reduced annular contraction, then MR & arrhythmia. 

"You see, my atrial ineffectiveness is believed to have been compounded from having had Afib so frequently & as ventricular closing force is everything & every incomplete mitral leaflet closure would leave a bit of blood behind, you can't magically catch up, can you, ha ha, no. 

"And I got the porcine valve during my studies, state of the art at the time -- and this one thirteen years later. To look for men, one needed to leave the house from time to time. Ha ha. You? Really?" 

You see why I just listen. That much I can do, well. 

I don't want to go in for tests! 

\--

J just texted. Among other things we've set up when he's coming up & he said he's going with me to Cardio "if there aren't any objections". M probably asked him to, at Christmas & it is not J's desire to see Gladys, alone. Meaning, in itself.


	17. Klaus for forgetfulness

_5 Jan._

Vivid dreams of K & then waking up with impossible feelings. Guilt. I must have slept in a strange position as my mask pressed a hard line up into my cheekbone. (The one I keep at kitty's fits better. Is that purposeful? Ha ha.)

Klaus. I cannot look at photos of Platz der Republik without visceral nostalgia -- let's write it down for what it is). I have a lovely drawing of the Reichstag, made in a passion -- that lasted weeks, and I think its beauty (I consider it one of my ten best, if not five best; S adores it & Jens hired me after seeing a snapshot of it, though I suspect S coerced him) comes from my having felt so appreciated as a man, after a series of rather unsuccessful attempts at dating.

We don't know one another from that perspective: me, dating. You're good where you are on that, shall we say. If there was ever something I did not excel at, it was dating. Fortunately, M told me what he wanted from me, or we'd have been at a terrible impasse where I'd have pined over him with every organ for who knows how long, probably wasting a lot of emotional life on short-lived substitutions for him. You cannot imagine how I'd started wanting exactly him. It was so clear to me & still is.

In fact I'd probably have given in & told him my feelings in a few more weeks. I'd have pulled my nerves to the limit over it, though, looking for signs & then telling myself off, that I was imagining it, &c. Mainly to fantasise, which is its own ritualistic entity. That's probably not the best descriptor. I'm at a loss.

I wonder sometimes what he'd have said, hearing that from me for the first time. It's possible he'd have tried to talk me out of it. He didn't seem to believe I felt much for him, for some time. In fact, it blocked him up terribly. It's one thing to tell yourself that you are ready to accept someone into your life & quite another when he is inches from your softest tissues, breathing in your face, saying all sorts of complicated emotional things that don't relate to anything you'd come to believe about yourself.

The first time I felt him in my hand. It was so much. Ha, literally! Lexie Bertie, you are a mess.

But K. There was a series of events that had a defining influence. First, I lost Auntie Claudia. Henry's death had broken her to pieces -- she quit playing piano (she was not particularly accomplished, having rather stiff hands and wrists, but loved music) & didn't even whistle or hum to herself, anymore. It was that painful: she blamed herself for having gone out to the shop, 'leaving him to fend for himself' -- he choked on chicken, apparently eating it with his hands -- so he could go back to his piano quickly, we think). She found him on the floor of the kitchen, his head & eyes turned toward the living room. (She described his gaze as desperate & he was still warm enough that she believed he'd be revived.) She wouldn't let me move back in to help her, either (I was in student housing by then, near the Barbican. I suppose I was hoping for sex; I don't remember why I was so determined to live there except that David thought I needed privacy or I'd "never reproduce" -- joke's on him). Anyhow, she'd finally gone to Cirencester to visit Lilly -- the first to be a grandmother in their generation & the day before she would be coming home, she quit breathing in her sleep having set aside her blood pressure meds (she left the bottle here at the flat! I still have it in my medicine cabinet and it disturbs M but I cannot bring myself to toss it out.) It was a terrible shock. She never met Lena, as I'd put it off.

Worse, I took her example without realising it, at first. After breaking off my engagement, and the abuse I got from Lena's parents & David's unbearable remarks, I set aside my beta blockers more and more often, hoping to make myself harder to revive were I to survive what I was planning to do to myself. When I had the collapse, I did not admit to the number of days I'd not taken it. In fact, I have never fully admitted it. Six. 

S inferred a lot & I told him about the stairs. I am ashamed that I planned that & still went to mass in the mean. I don't know what I would have done without Her intervention. I couldn't see how serious it had got.

Once I was well enough & lost my virginity properly, I transferred out of psychology even more unceremoniously & chose mechanical drawing (illustration in a recession seemed unwise given what was happening to the FA programmes at large) and found an exchange semester in Berlin. At the time, it was a sea of cranes & everywhere you looked there were new, gorgeous forms (blokes and the building projects, in that order). 12 years of German paid off, I liked to think, in units of Klaus. K couldn't speak much English, having learnt Russian (raised in the DDR). He was (is still) a highly-regarded illustrator/designer and as far as I am aware, went on to work for Volkswagen, exclusively. He could sit down at his desk & in very spare lines produce a highly stylised, print-ready illustration that looked steel-engraved. Were I to envy anyone's work, perhaps it would be his steady hand & the certainty in every line he put down -- I have always had to brace my hand, and I can show you places I have had to cover or work around my errors in practically every drawing.

More enviable still was his stamina -- he was as desirous as I was insatiable. To be fair, I was touch starved & his libido was just as intense. I was for lunch breaks or evenings, or both. His office was large & had a second room with a vintage oak lounge chair that could be folded out into a bed for one (or better, one-riding-one -- strong enough for two men, easily) and he asked me to stay over plenty, starting the third week or so -- we'd work together on large, technical drawings (his ongoing projects), and he'd give me some work to complete alone, at another desk, which he would look at & comment on frequently -- very helpful -- I learnt so much every week. Later, unwinding or being unwound. He would open me while I leant forward on a windowsill, looking out at the Platz, then he'd pull me onto him and hold me while I rode him. He'd hold my waist and breathe and talk right against my chest -- Du willst mehr, nicht wahr? Ich möchte hören, wie du darum bittest...weil es macht mich sehr an, wenn du schreist! Unforgettable finishes in his mouth. And it was madly good until I discovered I wasn't quite enough. If not a beautiful thing, a beautifully casual one while it lasted. We parted as friends & he gave me a wonderful recommendation that I'd not even asked for, though it later got me into The Economist & the Guardian (ought to have followed up on those, then -- too anxious to write). I was disappointed for some time that nobody seemed to consider me good enough to be faithful to. I knew my value as an illustrator. Perhaps that is where it was supposed to fit in. But that really hurt, in a 'will it always be so' in the way of heavy resignation. C was faithful until the cameras got prettier.

Gracious Mother. How can those feelings be so salient after so long? Last night, I dreamt of that foldout chair-bed; I was on my back -- a thin goosefeather mattress on thick slats -- Klaus was on top of me, arms taut, pounding into me (my calves at his ears & I was laughing that he couldn't hear how loud he was). Arresting realism. K, having grown up in fear of his neighbours (raised in a dreary flat-block in Potsdam; palatial grounds within walking distance -- wonderfully restored now, in recent photographs -- there is an entire chamber in the Neues Palais at Sanssouci, with walls decorated in seashells, and marble intarsia on the floors), was expressive & it was unbearably hot to hear in the moment, that my body could be so enjoyable, not only once furtively but regularly, with increasing intensity. Realising how much I enjoyed being enjoyed even if I couldn't quite come that way, yet, and how much I loved fucking just to fuck, because the day was long, or the lines were all in place that afternoon, because that is what we want when hot & alone with time on our hands.  
Perhaps I want to be enjoyed?

Write it, Lexie. You're happily married to a man you would do anything for, thus you want to be enjoyed. A lot more.

\--

I just texted M about the archives & we're waiting for an appointment with the expert(s) "in the latter half of January and no sooner".  
He's calling.

\--

"What is the matter, Alexander?" he asked, because I let him hear it in my voice, this time. "Kitty, I would love to have you as soon as you can get here. How are you feeling?" "Nearly certain that it was an allergy and nothing more. You understand very well why I've stayed away." "I know, darling, but I want you here." (Silence.) "Yes. Thank you."

Fine. I cried.

_6 Jan._

Abram's ashes will be interred in a week's time, in a small ceremony for family, only. Mina called & apologised for the lateness in informing me & the exclusion implicit in making that decision. I told her I'd not expected to be included -- no need to apologise, though that seemed to hurt her, as well. She is completely lost without her father, she explained, and wants to move away in hopes of collecting herself somewhere else. There will be a memorial volume for clients who want to give tributes, at the office, and she said that I may ask for it when I am there, next. It was a difficult talk for her. Poor dear.

Immediately called S (for the record, he was in a fantastic mood!) to wish him a happy birthday & he stayed on for well over an hour, describing a case or two from the news. He asked if I'd chosen a new solicitor (I haven't & must do very soon) & he reminded me not to as much as dream of hiring multiple specialists to micromanage my money & organs since M "will happily pay into it if it means he can keep it up". I tried to explain that M doesn't have the sort of unlimited access to my organs that S imagines he does. Who would even want my organs, if not S? I might have pointed that out.

While I could feel he is looking forward to some unsupervised time, S is a bit annoyed that J is coming up to London without him. I told him he was more than welcome at my place should he change his mind. He coughed & I made a remark about leaving the homemade liquids in Eastborne. He did not like that, suggesting that M was right. It's one of those cases when I wish M were entirely wrong. Not that those occur regularly.

An aside: is it silly, pretty volume, that I don't like the idea of J meeting Gladys? And what sort of expert do I imagine I am, here? Your silence speaks for you. Point taken.

Kitty & I have loads of decisions to make before I can decide on any particular...legacy? Have mercy.

In fact, lovely one, I want M to decide things for me. If I didn't, I wouldn't have married. I've said as much but he is not comfortable with 'additionally' managing all of it.

He says my word is everything to him, so let it be 'yes', all the time. I will say yes, and he will ensure he has asked the right questions.

That would be the best arrangement of all.


End file.
